


Getting Better All The Time

by Ook



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU- Still have powers, And Lots of It, Charles has low self-esteem, Charles needs ALL the hugs, Charles needs a hug, Erik is Grumpy, Erik is not good at comfort but he is by hell going to try, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I am being very self indulgent about this, It came from my brain, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus, Past Abuse, Secretive and dubious quasi-governmental shenanigans ahoy, fluffy fluffy fluff, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:59:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 26,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/650291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So. Charles, a telepath, who has a lot of trouble managing his ability moves into a block of flats where everyone's a mutant. My main theme through this story is “Everyone is nice to Charles, who needs it.” </p><p> </p><p>This has been placed on Hiatus until I get the time/muse inspiration to edit and beta what's already up here. There's been a major improvement in my writing since I started this (I think) and I cannot continue this until the part already up matches what will be written later. Sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Charles is a little less self assured in this; due to traumatic au pre story events. Fic equivalent of candy floss, and then some.

Logan watched the young man hesitate on his doorstep for some time before deciding to ring the bell. “Fuckin’ finally!” he muttered as he set off to the front door. He’d never admit to possessing any virtues, least of all the virtue of patience. Plus there was something about having to act all… landlord-y when setting up a new tenant that set his teeth on edge. The man who called himself Wolverine didn’t do welcoming, at least, not outside of the boxing ring.

Logan wrenched open the door and ran a considering nose and eye over the pathetic specimen in front of him. Blue eyes, probably in his twenties, dressed like his grandpa, scared- and wearing some kind of suppression collar very visibly. Great. Another one ashamed of himself and what the world thought of him and his kind. He snorted. Mutants who were afraid like this usually never warmed up to Logan, not that he cared one way or the other.

“You the new tenant?” he demanded, brusquely. The other mutant nodded, wide eyed and silent. “Here are your keys. You’re in 2012, studio apartment. Come on.” He turned, not waiting for the other to follow him, and went straight for the stairs. Whiners always asked about the elevator. Logan preferred to keep its cranky nature a secret as long as he could.

He slowed down when his sensitive ears detected the raspy breathing behind him. He was an asshole- proud to admit it, too- but he wasn’t a sadist, or he’d have become a drill sergeant, not bought an apartment block, when his back pay had come through.   
“Bit of a climb, but the apartment’s worth it.” He offered, without looking round. A slight hitch in breathing was the only response he got. Logan shrugged. Eh, sometimes he wasn’t into talking himself.  
“Here we are. 2012.” And he flung open the door of the apartment.

Chapter 2

Charles was regretting having agreed to be weaned off his anti anxiety medication. The fact that it combined unfavourably with some of the other pills he was taking was less important than first impressions with his new landlord. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He drew a deep, calming breath, though about clear skies, cool oceans and wide calm fields, and rang the bell.

The man who flung the door open was not completely terrifying. Short, hairy, muscly, snarly and rude, he was the absolute antithesis of the groomed and emotionless scientists and teachers who still inhabited Charles’s nightmares. Still, if he’d replied to the letters Charles had written, he had quite good handwriting, so despite his exterior he probably wasn’t a complete thug. That was nice to think. 

Briefly, Charles rubbed his hand against his suppression collar. Without it, he’d have been able to perceive Mr Logan’s personality immediately. With it he was forced into this clumsy detective work, which was a difficult and unreliable method of working out people’s feelings and motivations. Without his collar, he was dangerous. With it he was in danger, unable to use all his senses to protect himself. 

But it kept him out of the half way houses and mutant support hostels. Charles was completely determined to live his own, unsupervised, independent life for as long as he could. No one was going to lock him up, restrain him, drug him again, not even those who actually were doing it for his own good, instead of just saying it. Cain didn’t know he’d moved. Hopefully it would be a long time before he did. Meanwhile, Charles Xavier was going to keep himself safe and well.  
Thoughts like these put the same strain on his breathing they always did. Charles thought it was likely his new landlord had noticed, but he didn’t say anything, only slowed his speed as he hurtled up the stairs. It did make things easier, and Charles felt silently grateful to the man; both for his thoughtfulness and for his tact in not mentioning it.

The flung open door revealed a bright, small place that silently delighted Charles’ heart. It was not large, but the ceilings were high enough that he didn’t feel cramped. There were two windows, both quite reasonably sized. One looked over the main street the block stood on; the other looked down the side street to the tiny local park. It was clean, and bright, and homely. And it was his. 

Well, he hoped. Mr Logan had taken his deposit and his signature on several papers. That meant he was allowed to think of the apartment as his to rent, didn’t it? Didn’t it? He rubbed his forehead. He hoped so. So much of his life had been spent in one institution or another; sometimes he hardly knew what was expected and usual in the ‘normal’ world. Logan grunted. 

“’M not holding your hand through this. Rent’s due first of the month, on the dot. Stick it under my door if I’m not around. Want to get in touch, do the same thing, ‘less it’s an emergency. Don’t call the number unless it’s an emergency or I’ll gut you. Got it?” Eyes wide, Charles nodded. “Huh. Good.” He threw the keys at Charles and left him to take possession of his own space.

It seemed very empty; and then he realised: No furniture. Well, hardly any. A stove and a refrigerator, plus one folding chair and table sat in the kitchen area. A heavy wooden box, a bit like a coffee table was the only other piece actually in the one room space. Still. One entire wall was nothing but shelves. That meant plenty of space for all the books he intended to collect. Charles loved books. He opened a cupboard and was pleased to see that it was clean and dust free inside, if empty.

Charles took a deep breath. This might just work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving in, making friends. Even if you don't think you are.

“Hey! New neighbour?” Charles jumped, startled, and whirled to see a gangly redhead staring at him from the door.  
“Yes?” his voice came out as crackly and raspy as it usually did, but the young man at the door didn’t seem to notice, continuing cheerfully.  
“Great! it’s nice to see a new face, too!” His smile was positively infectious, Charles thought, smiling back at him. “You need a hand bringing boxes up the stairs?”

“Well... I-” Charles rubbed the back of his head, anxiously. He didn’t want to be a bother. His thought processes were interrupted by the red head’s shout  
“ALEX!”  
“No, I’m Charles-“ He was interrupted by a answering roar from the next apartment.  
“WHAT?”  
“Alex, get up man! New neighbour’s moving in!”  
“Alright, all right. Keep your pants on, Freckles.” And the door across the hall banged open to reveal another lanky young man, this one blond.

“So you’re Moira’s replacement, huh? I’m Alex. This is Sean.” And the blond thrust his hand out at Charles, who shook it immediately.   
“I’m Charles.” Alex raised an eyebrow at the sound of Charles’ voice, which was gravelly and crackly, as usual. Unlike most, he didn’t ask about it, staring at Charles for a short time before asking, abruptly. “Mutant?” Charles’ heart sank.   
“I, um, yes. I am.” Normal people didn’t like mutants. Even a lot of mutants didn’t like telepaths. And no one liked people wearing suppression collars. Alex looked at him, narrow eyed. Charles couldn’t stop his shoulders hunching defensively.  
“Hey, that’s cool, man.” Sean said, cheerfully. “So’re half the people in this block, including me. And this crazy dude here.” And he smiled, and punched Alex on the arm. Alex snorted, but he stopped staring. 

Sean swept towards the stairs, chattering aimlessly. Alex followed him. They stopped when Charles didn’t immediately follow. “Where’ve you parked? If we get one of the girls or Hank to hold the doors, we can have all your stuff up here in a sec.” Sean asked. Charles found himself walking towards the door without further thought.

Later that night, Charles found himself staring up at his new ceiling from his camp bed with wide eyes. The boys- for they were younger than him, by a couple of years, at least, had plunged up and downstairs with boxes of books and bedding, his suitcase and his kitchen goods, exchanging jokes with Angel, the girl from one of the other flats, as they went past. She had a bright laughing face, and a wicked smile.   
“Dancer.” Alex had explained, briefly. “Can’t ask her to risk her bones or her back, but she’s good at holding a door.” Charles had nodded. “Quiet dude, aren’t you?” Oh dear. He’d only just met them and he was doing it all wrong again.  
“Sorry.” He half whispered.  
“Don’t be. What with Sean’s babble, and Bozo’s lecturing, and the girls, you probably wouldn’t get a word in edgeways anyway.” Alex had said, amiably. “This all the kitchen stuff you’ve got?” Charles had nodded again, resolving to find out who Bozo was later. 

Now all his books were unpacked onto the shelves, his other stuff in the cupboards or in the bathroom. His Rothko poster was on the wall, and his clothes hung on a clothing rail Angel had lent him. He couldn’t believe it had been so easy to move in. Charles’ camp bed had gone up more or less easily; Alex had helped him without asking him why he didn’t have a proper bed.

Even his refrigerator had food in it. That had been the blue girl, Raven’s doing. She’d come home as the boys had been helping him with the last box. She’d disappeared into her apartment, then come out with a box of food- cheese, milk, bread, coffee and sugar. When he’d pulled out his wallet, she’d glared at him so fiercely he’d panicked and begun to babble hoarse apologies until her expression had softened.  
“Hey. S’okay. Don’t worry. Just a house warming present, that’s all. Closest store’s closed now, you’re not gonna get anything worth much at the 24 hour place.” and he’d calmed down, hopeful she had forgiven him.

Everyone he’d met had been so… so friendly. No one had spat, or glared, or cowered. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t been alone? Maybe this corner of the city was unusually welcoming to mutants. That would explain why everyone in the apartment block he’d met so far had not only been a mutant, but happy to tell him so. Odd, if pleasant. Maybe there was a mutant here who made everyone act nice towards newcomers? Charles frowned. But then there was his landlord’s attitude, so that explanation was out. He yawned, and closed his eyes. Well. He’d work it out tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sean is not having a good day at Erik Lennsherr's coffee shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a stupid OFC does not accept somebody’s homosexuality. Also, Sean rambles. And is fond of Harry Potter references

Sean’s having a bad day. Not the worst ever- that involved his thesis advisor, some bad weed, a maths textbook and a really angry cat in a box. Of course working for the Sharkman might be described as bad at all times, but Sean has survived at the café longer than most of the other minions. He’d be senior server or manager, if Erik hadn’t unaccountably decided to elevate Sacheem, instead. Just because he always manages to be on time. Weird. Sean thinks that maybe the Sharkman (Erik, to the customers, Mr Lensherr to the suppliers, and Lord God to his minions) is sifting the café staff for suitable recruits into his Evil Brotherhood of Darkness. It’s clear that the man’s planning some kind of world domination. No one smiles like that if they’re not fantasising about bathing in the blood of their enemies or something. Sean knows these things.

Of course, when he’d tried to explain this to Alex and Hank, they’d accused him of being high. Well, he had been, but that didn’t make him _wrong_. He was not paranoid either, which they had also said he was. Sean sniffed. Sometimes they just didn’t appreciate his insight. Hadn’t he said Erik had hidden depths before they’d encountered the Sharklings? The Sharklings are Erik’s twins- Wanda and Pietro to their friends and their Dad’s minions. They are also are partly the cause of his bad day. Wanda is upset, which means her mutant powers are sparking like crazy. A customer’s change walked off- literally. The milk has turned sour, turned fresh and turned into butter. Pietro can’t sit still, and is racing between the staff break room, where he is allowed, the kitchen, where he is not, and the café proper. Only Wanda’s presence has prevented murder or worse, dropped dishes.

And, to put the capper on this day of woe, Ruth is here. Ruth, whose mutant ability goes as far as changing her hair colour at will. Ruth of the too-tight tops and the too-wide smiles, who squeals about the oppression of mutants and discrimination of minorities whenever she can find an audience, but won’t accept Sean is gay and happy living with Alex. She’s told him that she can help. Just _how_ she wants to help, Ruth makes clear with her smiles, her touches and her habit of standing way too close if ever Sean leaves the protector of his chastity also known as the counter. Sean swears, if she touches his ass one more time, he’s siccing Erik on her. Or maybe Alex. See if she feels like changing her hair when she’s got no eyebrows to match.

No. That’s cruel. Misuse of magic against a squib, and all of that Harry Potter stuff. She’s stupid and annoying; she’s not a Death Eater. Sean runs a hand through his hair and takes her coffee order, ignoring her sidewise looks and smirking. She’s drowned herself in a new, horrible perfume again. Her hair is ginger, today, like Seans’s- “So we match.” she’d drooled at him-and she’s tipped him five dollars for a three dollar drink. He puts Ruth’s tip in the communal jar. They share it out once a week, and it adds maybe up to twenty dollars to their wages, every time. Sean would swear he saw the Sharkman putting extra cash in it one week, but nobody believed him. Also Erik threatened his life if he spoke of it again. It makes working for the café a decent job in spite of the bossman being someone who Snape wants to be when he grows up.

The bell over the door jangles, and Sean looks up with hope. He’s pleased to see the new guy from across the hall step in, cautious as a cat in a new place. Alex calls him El Silencio, because they’ve hardly seen him, and he hardly spoke when they helped him move in. Sean calls him the Prof, ‘cause dude sure dresses like a professor, but he hasn’t found any supporters for his nickname yet, except Hank. The Prof asks for a hot chocolate and a panini in a voice that sounds like he’s been gargling with glass again. Sean rings him up and turns to make the drink. He makes it extra large, extra cream, because the Prof sure is a skinny guy; needs some meat on his bones. Sean thinks he should take him home to meet his Gram; she’d like talking to someone who didn’t talk much, and feeding people up was like, her second duty or something. Her first being nagging and spoiling her grandkids, in turns.

Plus there’s something… lonely about the Prof which makes Sean think he could do with extra family. Sean’s got so much family he’s always looking to share the wealth. It’s like being a Weasley, only with more mutations and less magic. Even Alex has resigned himself to being an honorary Cassidy boy now, and Hank never stood a chance. Mary and Paige are still fighting it out as to which of them is allowed to marry Hank. Sean’s not breaking his twin sisters’ ten year old hearts by telling them about Raven and Az. He hears Ruth’s voice raised over the hiss and gurgle of the cappuccino machine, and turns round. It’s bad. She’s shouting, now, shouting at the Prof, and he’s just… taking it. He’s gone whiter than the whipped cream, and the hand he’s got on the counter is starting to shake. Dude looks really bad. It’s weird he’s so scared of Ruth though, she’s not much of a threat. Then he hears what Ruth is saying.

“People like you make life harder for the rest of us mutants! Take off your oppression! Why are you ashamed of what you are?” She turns and smirks at Sean, apparently expecting him to be delighted by her causing a huge scene in his workplace. Other faces, mutant and not, stare at her, disapprovingly. Ruth ignores them all, pleased she’s striking some blow for mutants and her ego everywhere. The Prof doesn’t answer her. With a dull shock, Sean remembers, the Prof’s wearing a suppression collar. That’s what Ruth - who’s definitely approaching Death Eater in Sean’s book now, shouting at some quiet guy who won’t or can’t defend himself- is yelling about. And the Prof is really scared. Maybe she’s reminding him of his time under the Imperius Curse, or some other flashback, maybe he thinks everyone in the café is glaring at him and not her. 

Sean sees the Prof start to walk away, leaving his order and the café, and he doesn’t care. This sh-stuff is not on. No Gryffindor would allow this to happen. Nor would anyone raised by his Gram, or his mom.  
“Hey! You stay here.” He calls to the Prof, who freezes with a guilty start. Ruth blinks. “And you, Miss, out!”  
“What? What have I done?” She seems stunned.  
“Yelling at another customer, causing problems for everyone else?” Sean snarls, pleased at the crestfallen expression on her face. “Leave or I’ll call the police.” The Prof tenses at that, so Sean continues “Or the Bossman, he’s only upstairs.” Ruth displays the first sign of sense Sean’s ever seen in her, and leaves, immediately. She flounces out, muttering about never shopping here again.

“Man, I hope she means it.” Sean remarks, conversationally to the Prof. Prof just looks at him, so Sean explains. “Half the time people who say they’re never shopping here again are back next week.” Prof nods, shakily. If he gives the dude his hot drink now, he’s going to drop it. Sean looks at him again and makes a snap decision.  
“Hey. Come on through for a minute, get yourself together.” He comes out from behind the counter and tugs the Prof gently through to the staff room. Well, it’s supposed to be the staff break room, but really, anyone can hang out there if the staff don’t mind.

“Sit. Take some deep breaths or something. Ignore the rugrats.” The break room is quiet. Armando is sleeping- he’s probably evolved himself out of being able to hear the twins. He often uses the staffroom as a napping zone. Driving a cab must be exhausting. Wanda is colouring and Pietro is… somewhere else. Hopefully upstairs, with his Dad, the Sharkman. Quietly, the Prof sits. And gives Seam this huge, bewildered smile, like he can’t understand why Sean’s being nice to him. Sean scratches his neck, awkwardly.   
“Just… don’t pay any attention to that girl, OK? She’s stupid, and she doesn’t speak for anyone else around here. You do whatever you need to, yeah?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Darwin sit up and start to listen in  
“Ruth?” asks Darwin, shrewdly.

“Ruth.” confirms Sean, grimly. Darwin nods. He doesn’t need any more details. “Darwin this is the Prof… This is Charles.” Oops. Still, Charles doesn’t notice, or doesn’t mind the nickname. “Hi, Charles.”  
“Hello… Darwin.” He smiles, weakly, again. Darwin gives him a considering look. Sean winces. Prof’s voice still sounds awful bad. He hopes it hurts less to speak than it does to listen to. Darwin looks at him again; he’ll keep an eye on the Prof and the Sharklings if necessary. Good. Prof needs someone to keep an eye on him. And Erik would cruciatus Sean if he left the Sharklings alone with a stranger, even one as nice and shy as Prof Charles.

Wanda looks up and says  
“Hi, Prof-Charles. I’m Wanda. Do you like colouring?” Charles gives her a gentle smile.   
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She hands him one of her special crayons, the sparkly ones. The bell on the counter dings, loudly.  
“The hordes of Dementors are always hungry. Gotta run.” and Sean dashes back out, nearly colliding with Pietro as he speeds though the corridor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forwards, one back.
> 
> Or: Erik is careful about the kind of people he likes around his children.

Wanda likes Sean’s new friend. He colours real well, inside all the lines. Not like Pietro, who is a stupid boy, always scribbling across everything. He shares his hot chocolate, too. He also offers her some of his sandwich, but she doesn’t take any. She has lots to eat. Sean’s friend looks like he should eat more. She tells him so, and he smiles a funny smile.  
Prof doesn’t talk much with his voice- Wanda thinks he maybe has a sore throat- but he knows how to talk with his hands. Sign language. It’s really neat. Even Pietro thinks that it’s really cool. He sits down and makes the Prof teach him finger spelling so he can make jokes with Bobby and the teacher won’t know.

Darwin already knows sign language, so they all sit around and talk with their hands. That’s not why Wanda learns it though. Sometimes Daddy gets really bad headaches. It would be nice if she could talk without disturbing him then. And it’s really fun. Pietro starts running again and Prof seems really surprised at how fast he can go. Then Daddy gets up from his office, even though they’ve been quieter than mices. Maybe the customers are being noisier. Or maybe it’s Prof Charles’s funny necklace. Daddy can feel metal, so maybe that’s what disturbs him. He comes downstairs and gets a coffee. He stops and stares when he sees them all, hand talking away.

Wanda leaps up and throws herself at Daddy. He catches her and pretends to stagger under her weight. He always does this. Then he rubs his face on hers because it’s late and he’s bristly. Wanda giggles. Daddy looks at Darwin. Then Daddy looks at Prof Charles. Prof Charles sits very still when he sees Daddy looking at him. Darwin does the funny hand wave he calls a salute, and leaves. He has to go drive his cab. Wanda likes his cab. It’s yellow.   
“If you’re a customer, you shouldn’t be back here.” Wanda knows Daddy sounds like he’s growling, but he’s only pretend fierce. At least, this time.   
“I… Sorry, sorry.” His voice is even more whispery and quiet. He’s stood up already. Wanda frowns. She likes Prof Charles. 

“Sean let him back here because Ruth was here and being mean.” Wanda wrinkles her nose. Everyone knows Sean is *her* minion. Just like Alex. They promised. The grown ups don’t listen though. Daddy keeps talking. Prof Charles keeps backing away like Daddy really is scary. He’s not. Wanda knows.  
“And I don’t want someone in a suppression collar in the break room. I have my children here.”  
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I-” And, just like that, he’s gone. He leaves behind half his sandwich, too. Wanda hits her daddy on the arm. Not too hard.

“You scared him! He was nice to us!” Wanda had wanted another minion. Pietro had more than her. It wasn’t fair. Daddy snorts.  
“Wanda, he’s a grown man.”  
“You scared him away! He left his food behind. Meanie!” Daddy scratches his neck, thoughtfully.   
“Well, leibling, the next time we see him, you can tell him I’m not scary at all.”  
“Ok. Good.” Wanda declares with great satisfaction. She pets where she hit him, in apology. He smiles and hugs her tighter. They can’t have pets; because of the café being under the house, Daddy said. And he won’t let them make pets out of people, not after Pietro made the babysitter cry. It was _too_ her brothers idea, even if Wanda went along with it.

Uncle Logan said minions were better than pets, and he was right. Lots more people will agree to being minions than ever wanted to be pets. Maybe Prof Charles will agree to be her minion, the next time they see him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank McCoy meets his building's newest inhabitant over some germs and soup. Naturally, Science! ensues.

Hank McCoy hates virii. Specifically the ones currently inhabiting his body. His immune system is doing its poor best, which is why he is dripping with mucus and coughing every five minutes. Also why he feels even warmer than usual; his fur means he always feels warm, but at the moment it’s completely unbearable. He feels like he’s swallowed hot coals. He wants juice, soup, and a hug from his partners. Or paracetamol. Azazel took Raven to the ballet in London; they won’t be back for a few days. He’d have gone too, but he had an article to write. Angel had taken his ticket, instead. His usual sources of comfort and soup are therefore unavailable. He texted Sean half an hour ago, but he hasn’t dropped by. He hopes the boy’s not indulging in illicit substances. Again. Really, he has no idea how Sean can hold down his job, and his courses and keep getting high. Perhaps it’s a secondary mutation? 

His feverish musings are interrupted by a soft knocking. Someone’s outside. He sniffs, but his nose is, like the rest of his body, held hostage by the invading germs. He can’t identify the knocker by scent or by the pattern of the knocks. Interesting. He blows his nose again, firmly.  
“Come in! Door’s on the latch.” Hank croaks. The door opens timidly and a wary head pokes round the door frame. It’s the new guy, Charles Something, the one Sean calls the Prof. He’s waving a plastic shopping bag in front of himself as it’s a shield. He edges into the room cautiously, and stands, looking supremely uncomfortable in front of Hank where he’s sprawling on the sofa.

“Sean texted me. He said, he said you weren’t well and you needed some things?” Charles’s voice is almost as rough as Hanks; maybe he’s coming down with the same thing. He waves the bag again. “I-I didn’t know what kind of juice so I got apple orange and pineapple and-“ He looks at Hank hopefully, like a dog that’s unsure of whether it’s getting the chew toy or the rolled up newspaper. Hank tries not to sigh. He knows people are made nervous by him- he’s over six foot tall, built like a giant cat /bear hybrid, and blue. But it gets wearing, especially when his resources are depleted by illness. Still, the man bought him things. Hank decides to ignore the social awkwardness. He’s been shy and awkward in his time; before Raven and Az shocked it out of him, so he tries to extend the hand of tolerance to others so afflicted.

“I like juice. Did you-“  
“Oh! And Sean said to get some over the counter flu things and he had the soup ready when I got to the café-” Here he stops his babbling and hunches up a little. Hank diagnoses a run-in with the café owner. Mr Lensherr is sometimes more bite than bark, and newcomers can find him traumatising.  
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you” He tries to stand and reach his glass on the coffee table. The prof hurries forwards to hand it to him, along with the juice, and stops, transfixed.  
“Oh no, no not at all I- is that the latest _Gene?”_

He sounds fascinated. Hank has to bite back a wave of surprise. Despite Sean’s nickname for him, and the mutant suppression collar, Hank wasn’t expecting the Prof to actually follow genetics journals.  
“You read _Gene?”_  
“I’ve been trying to follow Dr Eskine’s articles on enzyme activation and de-activation.”  
“He’s not in this one, but Dr Banner has an interesting piece.” He waves at the other man to sit, which he does, cautiously, and they’re off.

 

Charles is actually enjoying himself. Of course Hank has differing opinions on several aspects of Dr Banner’s article, but it’s been a long time since he was able to enjoy some basic scientific chit chat, especially with someone who has as much to fear from misapplied scientific curiosity as Charles does. Hank has a fine mind. It makes the tension over selecting the right flu and cold meds, or braving the café again. worth while. Charles knows Mr Lensherr doesn’t want him around his children, and he’s not going to argue with a caring father like that over coffee, which he can get anywhere, so he’s just avoided it since their first meeting. Sean was emphatic about coming there for the soup, so he’d had to go. Mr Lensherr had not been there, but he’d been flustered enough to forget the kind of juice Sean had told him to get, so he tried to get one of each of the most common. He’s not sure he got the numbers right. Hank doesn’t seem to mind though. 

 

Hank is intrigued. Under the shyness, and the weak voice, Charles Xavier has quite a brain. Hank thought at first Xavier had a cold, because of his voice, but it’s obviously something other than a temporary condition. They talk for hours, and Hank forgets all about his stuffed head and aching limbs. And never once does Xavier ask him about being blue, or if he’s ever thought about shaving. Hank’s suddenly unsure if Charles has even really registered that he’s not typically human shaped. Why then is Sean’s “Professor” not already ensconced in some university office or lab? Hank had asked him where he was studying, and all he’d gotten was a flushed mumble.  
“I, I’m not. At the moment. I. I mend things. Repairs and alterations? I’m, um. A tailor.”

It’s not the typical career structure for someone with his skills. But he does wear a suppression collar- an old one, too, not one of the lighter modern models, so Hank doesn’t ask. He wants to ask Charles what he can do with it off, so badly he has to bite his tongue, but he resists. Besides, there are more interesting things to talk about. Charles is sitting up straight, and they’re sketching a prototype for an amplifier, and Hank is telling Charles about his dreams of building a jet engine if the college let him have the spare space behind the engineering block, when he sees that Charles is staring over his shoulder. Hank sniffs, and smells sulphur.

Hank wants to swear. Azazel and Erik have just interrupted what could have been a very fruitful brainstorming session. His lover’s grin is very wide and white against his scarlet skin as he stares sharply at Charles, who is clearly trying to become invisible through sheer force of will. Hank thinks he might actually be shaking. Erik looks blank, concealing his thoughts as usual  
“I, I didn’t hear you come in.” Charles is not quite stammering, but his voice is still not strong. Hank wonders what kind of damage would cause that. Some kind of vocal chord trauma, but-  
“You would not have. I am teleporter.” Azazel responds, curtly. Azazel is not fond of strangers in his space. Or of timid people. Erik snorts. He’s usually more tolerant, but obviously something about Xavier’s self effacement is bugging him.

Azazel’s face softens as he takes in Hank’s empty soup bowl, the juice packs and the twelve different kinds of cold remedy lined up in front of Hank. Sean would know what Hank prefers, so he concludes this nervous stranger must have brought them. Az is pleased he was so thorough. Charles looks relieved.  
“I thought you were going to the ballet with Raven and Angel?” Hank asks. Azazel shrugs, expressively.   
“Erik said you were ill. We came to keep you company. They are shopping.” He gives an exaggerated flinch as he drops into a seat. He looks at Charles. “It was good of you to bring Hank medicine. Was it expensive?” His hand goes to his wallet. Hank mutters a warning that Azazel ignores.  
“Oh, no, that’s… I-“ Hank frowns. Charles is really flustered. Surely he had expected to be paid back? He must have spent forty dollars on cold medicine alone. For someone he didn’t know that well. He hopes they haven’t insulted Charles; he’s stiffening up again. Hank sneezes. Maybe he’s just nervous around new people. 

Charles knows a cue when he hears one. It’s time to go. Hank won’t want to spend time with Charles when his friends are here. And he knows Lensherr doesn’t like suppression collars; he’s already banned him from his café. They’ve only spoken once, but going in to pick up the soup Charles was aware he was trespassing, and lucky to get away with it then. Charles doesn’t want any embarrassing scenes in front of Hank now. He ignores Azazel’s request for a figure. He’d thought helping Hank might be a neighbourly thing, and they actually had a conversation, too. It’s been enjoyable. Asking for money is just too… difficult. It makes him worried. In any case, he has a shift soon. He’s one of their best with a sewing machine. He likes mending things.

Charles is gone before either Az or Hank can stop him, or pay him back. They stare at each other, wordlessly. This is the point where they’d usually kiss, but Hank isn’t letting anyone near until he’s no longer infectious. This bug is vicious. Az punches him on the shoulder in lieu of a hug. Hank retaliates and it’s all a little undignified for a while. Erik hauls Az off Hank eventually, by gripping his tail and yanking; Az glares at him. Erik gives him a toothy grin in return. Then Azazel punches Erik in the shoulder, and for a moment it looks like there will be another outbreak of wrestling until Hank starts coughing again.  
“So.” Az says, finally. “How are you feeling?”  
“Much better. Charles made me take the pills and the juice, and Sean sent his good soup-”  
“Made?” His lover raises a scarred eyebrow. “He does not look like he could make a snowflake melt, that one.”  
“Well, I didn’t want him to feel bad. He’s shy, I guess. And he practically bought me the contents of the entire pharmacy.”

“Spineless? Or brainless?” Erik snorts, impatiently.   
“No, he’s nervous. Really shy.” protests Hank. “We were doing great till you startled him. He had some pretty good ideas for Cerebro-” Azazel puts up both his hands to stop him.  
“No science rambling until you are back on your feet. If you say this Charles has a brain, he has a brain.” He pauses, and a wicked grin crosses his face. “You say he is shy? Sean mentioned this, also.” His tail twitches, speculatively.   
“I.. ah, Az, I don’t think…”  
“Yes. You do not think. You are still unwell, my beast. Go back to bed. I will entertain Erik here.”  
Az’s smile sweetens and softens as he looks at Hank. Hank is too distracted to speculate about their shy neighbour further. He follows his lover’s advice, and crawls back to bed. Az will doubtless do whatever he wants. He always has.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making friends again. Alex is protective of his ittle brother and also in awe of Emma. Charles is just... well, he's not really sure. But he likes it.

Charles comes home from his early shift humming to himself cheerfully. It’s a bright clear day, so they’re going to try going to the park later, when Emma arrives. It’s a weekday, so it shouldn’t be too busy. Wide open spaces, a few people, and a good, telepathic friend. The perfect recipe for him to try using his telepathy. Emma took over from his state appointed lawyer, years ago. The first big news article about the compensation claims against the old Institute for Mutation Management had hit the media, and less than ten hours later, Emma had realised her old playmate was one of the claimants, dusted off her law degrees and turned up on Charles’ doorstep with scotch and demands that she be employed as his lawyer. She’d charged him five dollars.

Since Emma helped him wring the truly generous settlement he mostly lives on now from the other side, she seems to have elected herself as his advisor and life director. She also tries to be his fashion consultant, but Charles feels no need to consult her on this aspect of his life, even when she offers. He likes tweed. And sweaters. His happy progress up the stairs to 2012- his own place!- is interrupted when he spots the gangly teenager in ripped jacket and dark glasses loitering outside Sean and Alex’s place. Charles slows a little, but he’s determined not to lose his good mood. He’s about to nod at the youth and walk past calmly, when the boy speaks to him. 

His voice is strained, wavering between “tough” and “upset”.  
“Hey man. You live here?”  
“Hello. Yes. Yes, I do.” Charles just manages to stop himself showing off his keys as evidence. He does live here, he’s allowed to use these stairs.  
“My brother does, too, but he’s out. I’m just waiting.” And he folds his arms, firmly. Charles blinks, and manages a nod. He unlocks his door and is about to slip inside when the teenager pipes up again.  
“Hey. Is that... Are you wearing a suppression collar?” Charles takes a deep breath. He tries to keep his voice calm and neutral  
“Yes. Why do you ask?” The teen waves an apologetic hand, anxiously

“I’m not… I don’t want to…” He pauses and then blurts “What does it feel like?”  
Charles swings away from his door and looks at him. He’s gazing at his feet, red faced and anxious. He hasn’t got an immediately visible mutation, but he’s Alex’s brother, and Alex is a mutant, so this may be more than another prurient teen being thoughtless. Maybe… Charles considers. There’s no point in offering the boy tea, but a drink of some sort is necessary for this conversation, and he can’t exactly offer a teenager his scotch.  
“How do you feel about hot chocolate?” The boy looks a little bewildered; perhaps Charles wasn’t clear enough. “That was an offer, not a metaphor, by the way.” The boy’s face brightens.  
“Oh! Yeah, I like it.”  
“Excellent.”

 

Alex is not a happy man. He’s missed two calls from Scott, frantic and miserable sounding, and one from Scott’s foster parents, sounding chilly and furious. Scott’s missing… again, and they’re sure his no good mutant older brother’s been “influencing” him… again. Alex half-hopes he’s gonna find an angry or sulky kid brother on his door stoop when he gets home. Hopes, ‘cause it means his Scott still runs to his big brother to fix things. But only half, because it’d be just great if Alex was off with some real friends and lost track of the time or something. 

Turns out, it’s a bit of both. Alex is leaping up the stairs, eager to get home and find out who he has to go punch for Scott this time to find… A stair party? His weirdo recluse neighbour is sitting on the stairs just below Scott, who’s half babbling, half gazing in awe at the third person in their group of losers. She isn’t sitting on the stairs. She is graciously allowing the stairs the privilege of supporting her lily white, diamond-perfect ass. It’s not just her ass which is perfect. Every blonde hair of her head is perfect and perfectly in place, as is her make up, her nail polished finger nails, her ivory white suit and her smile.

Alex resolves to hate her immediately. He scowls at Charles- really, the dude had to way lay his brother on the stairs? He doesn’t feel bad when he sees Charles recoil from his glare, at least not until Scott offers him hot chocolate, too. It’s the good kind, with little marshmallows. Alex knows he doesn’t have anything like that at home, so Xavier must have made it.  
The white lady- apparently her name is Emma- is almost as protective of her mascot as Alex is of his little brother. The look he gets when he glares at Charles might have decapitated a lesser man. He blinks. The smile she gives him then is sweeter than frozen sugar and sharper than a scalpel. Alex kind of wants to check himself for cuts or blood.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets sick. It's not like being sick before. Logan gets grumpy. Actually, that? Is exactly as it has been before.

Charles thinks he might actually be dying. He knows it’s extremely unlikely, after everything else he’s survived, that a cold will carry him off, but still. “Useless. Weak.” Kurt sneers from his memories of childhood illness before he was Sent Away. Kurt was always so insistent he not give in to germs; that he push himself farther, like Cain did at his age. Charles hasn’t been able to leave the apartment in four days. It’s hard not to believe Kurt at times like this. He’s eaten his canned soup stock, his ramen noodles and drunk all his juice and tea. Now he can’t even make broth from a stock cube, as one of the maids taught him to, once. He can’t stand up long enough without passing out. He doesn’t dare use the stovetop like this. He thinks wistfully of the mansions’ pantry, always stocked full of food hardly anyone ate.

He keeps throwing up, and the nausea and the fever make it hard to think. He knows he has to drink something. So he’s been living on tap water since last night. It tastes strange; unpleasant, unless that’s the virus altering his tastebuds. It tastes like the water they used to have at the institute, the first one, before he learnt to pretend. He’s getting cramps from sitting on the bathroom floor. The room is starting to smell, even to his blocked nose, and it’s all so disgusting. It reminds him of his mother, looking after her, trying to hide her from his stepfather’s wrath or his stepbrother’s scorn. Desperately wishing she could stop drinking, or get better at hiding the results.

He feels cold, shivery and aching. Charles wraps his towel around himself, and shivers himself into an uneasy doze, punctured by nightmares. Ghosts and memories slide across his mind, whispering at him until he longs to be able to wake up and leave them in the past, where they belong. Just like Kurt and Cain in real life, they refuse to stay there. Dimly, Charles knows he should get help, or a blanket or something. But he can’t think of the hospital, of allowing himself to be vulnerable near a doctor, even feeling this ill. Possibly especially when he’s feeling this ill. Emma is in Europe. Anyway, his phone is in the other room. The bathroom door is miles away. He’s not sure he can even crawl that far, now. 

 

 

Logan wants to kick someone. Possibly himself. Azazel is always up to something, as obnoxiously friendly as a cat. Now he’s apparently worried about his new neighbour. Who hasn’t been around or picked up his mail for a week. Who is very shy. Who is Charles, the stuttering, idiot with the big blue eyes. And this is Logan’s problem why? Az sighs and explains. Hank is still recovering, Erik is missing, presumed grumpy, and Az says he’s already frightened Charles with an unexpected teleportation once. Logan isn’t gonna trust Sean or Alex for this: the two young idiots would only get themselves into the sort of trouble which makes them unavailable for extra shifts serving coffee to the masses. Charles doesn’t answer the doorbell, or the knocking. 

Logan tries the door before he pulls out his pass key. The door is unlocked and unbolted. Immediately he goes on high alert. Even in this building, as ridiculously happy and mindlessly trusting as most of its inhabitants are, people lock their doors. But the handle to 2012 turns under his hands easily, only the Yale lock holding the door shut. Logan barely needs to nudge it to gain entry. He moves into the silent apartment beyond the door, warily. He sniffs. He can smell fever sweat and vomit. Paradoxically, the familiar smell relaxes him. He’d thought, after finding the door unlocked, that he might smell blood, or decay. It seems like this Charles has been sick, not murdered. Good. Maybe it’s a false alarm  
“Hey, Xavier?” Logan calls. The only reply he gets is a groan from the bathroom. He tries again “Hello?” He hurries towards the source of the noise.

A quick “You haven’t picked up your mail. You need to keep your door locked.” and he’s out of here. He opens the bathroom door, and has to bite down hard on his cursing. The little room shows traces of having once been neat and clean. Now it looks like a tornado has torn through it, scattering dirty tissues, used glasses, and other rubbish into every space.  
“Kid? You haven’t picked up your mail-” The scrawny man slumped by the toilet looks up at him with fever glazed eyes, and vomits again. Fuckin’ fantastic. Logan runs an assessing eye over him. Thinner than he had been when they first met, almost certainly dehydrated and- He places a hand on the slack faced floor hugger’s forehead, and almost jerks it away when he feels the fever heat there burning him. Hospital. He needs the hospital. Why the _hell_ hadn’t he called for help or taken himself off to a doctor’s before he got so bad?

“No, no. No hospital. No doctors.” Azazel’s project begins mumbling. Logan must have said that last thought aloud. Crap.  
“You need help.” _And a shower_ , he adds, mentally. The man on the floor stares at him confusedly, and doesn’t answer.Logan grabs a washcloth and wets it, rubbing it across Charles’ face. The cold water or the cleansing brings him round a little, and this time when he opens his eyes, Logan is reasonably sure that Sean’s professor knows where he is and what’s happening.  
“You need medical help, bub.”  
“I.. I’ll be fine in a little bit. Please don’t worry.” His gives Logan a pain filled grimace that Logan thinks was intended to be a reassuring smile. 

Logan snorts. He’s immune to puppy dog eyes even when they’re not in a face that looks like its owner has the plague.  
“No.” He says, firmly. Charles looks a little bewildered.  
“No?”  
“No. You won’t. I ain’t leaving you like this.” Logan is as astonished as Xavier looks, but he can’t let a tenant shiver and puke himself to death in his bathroom. He’d have a hell of a job renting the unit out again. He says as much, but Xavier just looks bewildered.  
“Please, I can’t.” He pauses, swallows. Forces himself to meet Logan’s eyes. “Not a hospital. They always…” His voice trails off. There is a brief, ringing silence. Logan wets the facecloth again.

“Please.” Charles gasps again. “Please don’t. I can’t …” He trails off, confusedly. “Tell Dr Essex I can’t.” He starts to make ragged gasping noises as Logan moves towards him. Charles flinches, trying to get more distance between them; jerking back as one of Logan’s hands swings too close. Logan freezes. This seems to terrify Xavier further, and he hunches into himself, babbling feverish apologies and assurances that he’s fine, perfectly fine, thank you. Logan resists the temptation to swear. Again. He's the last person to make anyone endure medical authority or attention they don’t want, not after what happened to him. It's also pretty obvious he can’t leave Charles here, and he’s not about to play Florence Nightingale, either. Then an idea strikes him. Hank has quite a bit of medical expertise. Raven is a nurse. He hides his grin. They owe him, after the Yoghurt Incident.  
“Xavier. You need help. If you don’t want to go to hospital, what do you want?” He cuts across Xavier’s waffling, and the sick man stares at him.  
“I… I...” He looks flummoxed. Logan grunts. It’s not that hard a question to answer, surely?

“Come on.” Logan scoops Charles into his arms, and stands. He tenses, and Logan grunts. “I promise I’m not taking you to hospital.”   
Charles breathes out, a little sigh, and then his head droops and he lurches against Logan some more. Charles seems to have exhausted his strength now, so at least he doesn’t struggle when Logan walks them out of the bathroom. He doesn’t like how easy it is to lift the sick man- he’s far too light for his height. He draws breath to give him hell about proper eating, when Charles’s head rolls on his neck, coming to rest against Logan’s shoulder. He sighs. He’ll save the lecture for later. He doesn’t bother knocking, just uses his master key, and stalks in. 

Hank is sitting on the couch. Lensherr's facing him, across the chessboard. Hank jumps up in surprise at the sight of Logan and his semi conscious burden, yellow eyes wide. Lensherr leans back in his chair and stares. Logan grins and stares back.  
“Good Lord, Logan, what’s happened to him?”  
“Influenza, bub. He doesn’t want to go to hospital. Is Azazel around?”  
“I can text him…” Hank scrabbles for his cell phone, wide eyed. “Logan?”  
“Yes?” He plops Charles down on the couch. Charles curls up defensively as soon as Logan lets go of him. He’s still shivering. Erik snags the afghan off the back of the couch and drapes it over him.  
“Why did you bring Charles here?” Hank asks, cautiously.  
“Az wanted me to check on him, no one’s seen him for a week. I found him like this, so he’s Azazel’s problem.” Logan looks away. “And they owe me over than damn yogurt.”

Erik smirks.  
“You didn’t just call an ambulance?” Hanks’ eyebrows rise.  
“If you want to force a sick an’ scared mutant into some goddamn norm’s hospital, you do it!” Logan won’t. He is not at all defensive. “He doesn’t want to go to hospital. Figured you and Raven could put your fancy medical learnin’ to work on a real patient.” Logan has no idea what happens to his face as he talks, but the idiot boy genius flinches back, babbling.   
“Let me find a thermometer. If his temperatures’ too high, we’ll call a mutant-friendly doctor or something.” On the couch, Charles blinks blearily at them. Logan is not sure he’s been tracking the conversation. Still his job’s done. As he leaves, he hears Erik’s voice. Logan nods to himself, satisfied. Lensherr’s a reliable man. He’ll see to it Hank doesn’t do anything stupid before Az gets back.

“Hank’s going to take your temperature.” Erik’s not sure why he’s explaining, except that Xavier’s bewildered gaze has fixed on him, almost hopefully. “Hank’s got training, he knows what to do.” Erik avoids using words like “doctor” or “scientist” deliberately. The sick man is so clearly afraid of hospitals, Erik’s ready to bet he has other triggers, too. Charles nods at him, slowly. “Are you thirsty?” Charles’s tongue flicks out to wet his cracked lips, and he nods again, faster. Erik sighs and heads for the kitchen. Azazel loves fancy bottled waters; there should be something in the fridge. Better than the juice for him, at least till Hank stops scurrying around and sets to work worrying what’s wrong. He hands the bottle to Charles, then takes it back, and opens it for him, after a couple of minutes spent watching Charles scrabble vaguely at the lid prove irritating. Charles drinks, steadily, the muscles in his long throat working as he swallows. Then he looks a little green again. Erik sighs, and looks for the wastepaper bin, just in case. He can’t wait for Azazel to come back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is never used to getting anything he needs. Being nursed by his neighbours is a bit of a new experience.

Charles is not quite sure how he got – wherever here is. He remembers getting ill and he can also remember, dimly, someone talking, offering him water. A wisp of memory suggests it was Lensherr, but he dismisses it. He’s only met the man once, and that was to anger him over his proximity to children whilst wearing a suppression collar. After that, he has no coherent memories at all. It couldn’t have been him. It’s not a hospital. He’d already have crawled out of the window if he’d thought he was back in one of those disinfectant scented gateways to hell. Charles recalls wanting to be somewhere dim and warm and quiet, somewhere his feverish brain would find safe. Somewhere that wasn’t his bathroom. Knowing nowhere was truly safe, in his fuddled mind. Then… He’d felt security. Support. Someone had been certain Charles wasn’t going to end up in a hospital, if he didn’t want to go. Hank had been there, he thought, and there had been some talking going on, but he hadn’t followed it. Someone had got him a drink that wasn’t tap water, and helped him with it. That had been all that had mattered, then. Minor details, like where he was, or who was there had not registered. 

Now he’s a little more with it, Charles can wonder where he is. He’s wearing pyjamas, not hospital scrubs or a uniform. The room is pleasant, with pictures and posters on the walls. There’s a large doll slumped against a bookshelf and staring at him. It’s a little unnerving. This cannot possibly be a hospital or lab. He’s in someone’s home. How unusual. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. His mouth is still dry and his throat still hurts. Of course, that’s only partly due to his illness. He reaches for it carefully. The water is cool and clean, and refreshing. He manages to get the glass back on the table safely, and permits himself a tiny glow of achievement. Someone- possibly more than one someone- brought him things to drink, wiped his sweaty face with cool cloths and gently made him swallow pills. No one has hurt him. No one has performed painful tests or… or anything, as far as he could recall. It has been quite marvellous; Charles is almost sorry he’s woken up. He’ll miss this when they make him leave. 

 

Sometimes, Raven wishes she could strangle her boyfriends. Of course, Hank is as sweet as Azazel is sharp- that’s why she loves them both, but really, just because she is a nurse at work doesn’t mean she wants to look after the boys’ latest charity chase on her days off. If the man can’t stand a hospital, when he’s sick, he needs a therapist, not nosy neighbours. Raven’s done her good neighbour act for him already, when he’d moved in. Alex had tipped her off he’d packed no food when he’d moved in. She’d considered asking him round for dinner, but he’d been too flustered by the crazy boys next door to really be ready for Az and Hank’s special charms. Some coffee and bread had been enough then. She’d decided to maybe ask him later, and then forgot about it.

Mysterious absent minded geniuses are all very well, until you find them in your bedroom. He hasn’t been too much trouble. Just laid quietly in her bed, in her room, too sick to look after himself, like a kid, almost. He hasn’t even been very delirious, just spent some time feverishly apologising to people who aren’t there in his faintly English accent. Raven doesn’t know what it is he thinks he’s caught up in. Nor is she drawn by the mystery, and she doesn’t feel much pity or sympathy for a man who, even if Hank says he has a fine mind, is too dumb to find a doctor or ask for help until he’s already collapsed. Really, she doesn’t. Still, she’s not working until later, and he needs feeding, so she warms up the chicken soup Sean dropped off, pours it into a mug, and heads off to the bedroom, snagging a box of juice as she passes. The mug makes it easier to get the soup down him. The box is easier to carry than another cup or glass. Raven opens the door, and notices the sick mans’ eyes open immediately. He’s definitely more alert than he has been.

Charles has been waking up enough to swallow whatever he’s been given, but Raven doesn’t think he’s actually been aware of where he is or what’s happening, at least, not until now. She gives the tray a little tilt and sing songs  
“Room service!” Charles’s forehead creases in confusion. “It’s soup. Sean’s’ mothers’ famous chicken soup, guaranteed to blast every germ.” There’s a little pause. The professor makes a tiny hitching movement of his shoulders and Raven hastily puts the tray down, helping him sit up, shoving an extra pillow behind his skinny shoulders for support.  
“Do you think you can manage this yourself?” Raven brandishes the mug at him.  
“I- can try?” He blinks bright blue eyes at her, huge shadowed pools in his scrawny and fever worn face. She puts the mug in his hands carefully.  
“Th-thank you.” He cradles it carefully, and she lets go of it, sure now he won’t drop it.

He breathes in the warmth of the soup and sips it like it’s some holy wine. His eyes never stop watching her. She tenses a little, automatically, before she remembers he was fine with her being the blue girl when he moved in. Maybe waking up in someone else’s room and pyjamas makes him nervous. He must be a mutant himself; he’s wearing a collar. She drags the armchair towards herself, and drops into it. He follows her movements carefully. He seems to relax at touch once she’s sat down.  
“ Nursing might be good for the karma, but it’s hell on the feet.” She offers, as a way of breaking the silence. He blinks at her.  
“You’re a nurse?” His voice still sounds terrible.  
“Yeah. Paediatric.” He relaxes further at that, and it makes Raven wonder again.

“This means I get to tell you what a dumb thing you did, just sticking it out at home till you couldn’t walk. What were you thinking?” He ducks his head, apologetically.  
“I… don’t think I was, after a while. I should have done something. But I didn’t know... I’m sorry.” His shoulders hunch up, and Raven feels a tiny bit bad. She frowns.  
“You couldn’t even get yourself to the doorway or text Sean or something? Logan and Erik had to practically carry you!” His breathing has gone all raspy and quick.  
”I- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bother, I’ll- I can go-“ Now she feels more than a tiny bit bad. He’s apologising frantically, and the soup mug’s tilting dangerously. She hops up to steady it.  
“Hey! Hey, it’s ok. I don’t- Look, just calm down, ok? I’m sorry.” He sucks in a breath that’s half a sob, and then breathes it out, slowly. He coughs, faintly.  
“Thank you for the soup.” He puts the empty cup down on the side table.  
“Ready for some juice? It’s apple.” He nods, so she gets the straw in the box and hands it over.

“I really should thank you for... for looking after me, though.” Raven waves his thanks away. She doesn’t to start off another round of apologies. “I-I can leave,” he offers. “I don’t want to be a bother.” He starts to ease a foot out of bed. Raven fixes him with the Eye of the Nurse. (It’s a little like the Eye of the Tiger, except it causes people to do her bidding, rather than think about boxing.) He quickly slips his foot back under the covers.  
“Don’t worry about it. Hank’s finished his article, and he’s not lecturing right now, so he kept an eye on you. And you got him all those drugs, so we just used them for you, too. You’ve been a model patient.” He smiles at her, slightly shyly, and Raven feels her heart flutter, it makes such a difference to his face. He really has very blue eyes. He fidgets with his suppression collar, and she can see the skin underneath is looking red and irritated.

“Hey, can you take that off at all?” She waves at the collar. “It’s looking a bit sore, do you-“ His eyes go wide.  
“No!” That’s almost a shout. “No, I-I mustn’t.” He’s holding on to it like she’s about to rip his collar off by force. Raven stops herself rolling her eyes.  
“Okay! Sorry. Just an idea. I can get a facecloth and a bowl of water, maybe? To wash underneath?”  
“Thank you.” Charles relaxes minutely, looking ashamed.  
“Sorry. It’s just that I…” he trails off. Raven waits as he sips more juice and gets himself under control again. “Panic attacks.” He adds, eventually.  
“Not wearing it makes you panic?” Raven’s never heard of anyone finding a suppression collar reassuring before. At least, not one they were wearing _themselves._  
“N-no, I-I’m a telepath. I would be, I mean. Only I get panic attacks. And, and sometimes I broadcast, and then people panic and then-” He looks absolutely wretched.

“I’ve never thought of a suppression collar stopping panic attacks before.” Raven says, carefully.  
“Oh, it doesn’t do that. Just stops me broadcasting, or picking up on other people.” He offers, almost cheerily.  
“Has it been like that since you manifested?” Raven carefully doesn’t think of the bleakness of it, of the poor man locking part of himself away for fear of feedback loops. When and where did he manifest, anyway? Telepaths often have the worst manifestation experiences. Surely his parents could have done something for him. There are all kinds of courses and treatments and things available for newly manifested mutants, now, even if a lot of them just boil down to learning how to fake “normality” in public. Half Raven’s job as a mutant paediatric nurse is dealing with suddenly manifesting powers, one way or another. Something like panic attacks triggering a power badly is treatable, even for an emergent telepath. 

“Oh, I, I manifested very young.” He looks uncomfortable, and he’s sounding a lot more British, suddenly. Raven decides not to press. Stories about the manifestation of your mutant power are often very personal. She was born blue, never known life as something else. Charles’s story might be different, what with the panic attack aspect of things.  
“Well, I was born blue. Not really a manifestation, at all, I guess.” She smiles, lets the subject drift away. “I’ll just get that bowl for you.” He blinks at her and pops the empty juice box next to the soup cup. She picks them up absently, as she leaves.

By the time she comes back with the wash water, Charles has stretched out peacefully. He’s almost asleep again. She leaves the bowl and cloth on the table next to the bed. The covers have drifted down, so she pulls them up over him.  
“Mruh?” His eyes flicker open, confusedly questioning her.  
“Everything’s ok. Go to sleep.” Raven says, quietly. The collar can wait. Sleep will do him the most good now he’s eaten. He still looks a little anxious, and Raven responds instinctively, as she does on the wards when the kids have bad dreams. She strokes the hair back from Charles’ face like he’s just another one of her kids, gentle and soothing. He still has a fever.  
“I’m here. Sleep.” The creases in his forehead smooth out, and Charles’ eyes close again. 

When his breathing has fallen into the deeper, regular pattern of sleep, Raven steals out of the room, and shuts the door behind her quietly.

 

Raven is a good nurse, if a strict one. She doesn’t allow Charles to get up until he promises to lie on the couch quietly and drink more soup. She threatens Hank with terrible fates until he promises to keep Charles company and gets out the chessboard, despite his protests and Charles’ offer to go back to his own place. She’d touched him, when he was sleepy. Charles can’t recall if he warned her that skin to skin contact gets through the suppression collar’s restrictions a little, if he doesn’t block it. He picks things up, mostly feelings, when people touch him. Probably that’s why it happens so rarely. But Raven’s… Raven-ness came through clear and comforting, when she moved his hair. He’d felt a breath of gentle concern and no hatred or disgust or fear of Charles Xavier at all. The feeling had accompanied him into sleep, and the memory of it was still with him when he watched her browbeat Hank. It made him feel less awkward about invading someone else’s private space with his illness. Charles hoped Hank and Azazel were able to put up with him a little longer. 

Hank smiles at him as Raven sweeps out, leaving them both with science journals, books, juice, snacks and fruit, and the chessboard all set up handily so neither of them have to move in the immediate future.  
“You’re sure I’m not keeping you from important things?” He has to check, now Raven is no longer there to threaten them. Hank scrubs his hand through his fur, and then he smiles again.  
“Charles. I’ve always got time for chess. Besides, I’m a researcher- the lab is doing just fine without me watching it.”  
His shoulders relax a little as Hank looks at the board between them. Chess is good. He likes chess. Hank likes chess. This is probably ok, then. They play. Hank is good at chess. He wins one game, concedes the next, and they’re debating whether to leave it at that or make it best of three when a soft noise and smell of sulphur announces Az’s return.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik opens up his coffee place, and has a meeting. (not with Charles.)

Erik has a busy day today. Sacheem has crashed out, ill- and Erik finds he genuinely believes the minion- employee- as he’s among the most dedicated and valuable worker he’s ever come across, despite not being a mutant of any sort. Still, Erik’s no bigot; and he hires and fires more or less strictly on a capacity and product basis. As he’s a known activist in the mutant rights area of politics, though, not that many non-mutants apply. Erik thinks his mother would disapprove of that, but if non mutants don’t apply, he can’t employ them. He runs a small coffee shop, not IBM or Apple. Erik used to be a very angry young man indeed, over mutant rights, and mutant pride, but time and experience has eroded some of that. Time, and his children. He wants to be able to look them in the eye after fighting for them.

Erik sighs, pensively, and he begins to unstuck the chairs and set the coffee shop up for opening. They’re still feared, still discriminated against; but the lists and the registrations and the outright attacks he feared as a teen have never really come to pass. His children are more likely to be quietly sidelined, ignored out of existence or warehoused in some tidy institution somewhere, if they can’t blend in by hiding or denying themselves part of their very nature. That’s why he can’t stand to see suppression collars- there are statistically very few people indeed who can never learn to control their powers, and fewer still powers which are dangerous enough, uncontrolled, to be forced into a leash like that. Most collars are used to make people afraid of themselves, or others afraid of mutants.

Erik will not permit his children to learn fear of themselves from others. A giggle and a faint thud alert him, and he looks up to call:  
“Pietro, _no running in the kitchen_!” He’s not worried about them learning to fear him. Silly Daddy that Wanda calls him, he doesn’t think he could ever-  
“Daddy!” Wanda says then. “Can I help out on the till?” She smiles. “Just till school time?” Erik eyes her sternly. She looks adorable in her school uniform, but, he thinks, when did she start to grow so fast?  
“Homework?” he says, sharply. Wanda grins.  
“Done!” She says, pleased.

“Breakfast?” Erik says next. She can’t have any coffee until she is twenty one. That has been decreed by Erik, since the twins were old enough to be allowed downstairs, and she doesn’t normally try to subvert it. Pietro can’t have coffee before the age of fifty. That has been decreed by his staff.  
“Eaten!” Wanda chirps.  
“Sports kit?”  
“Sorted, mine _and_ Pietro’s!” She waves both bags.  
“All right. Till only, stay away from the machines, ok?” Gleefully, Wanda skips over to the till, steering clear of Sean as he ministers to the steaming shiny metallic beast that is Erik’s coffee machine.

Erik flips the metal sign from “Closed” to “Open” on the door, unlocks it with a wave of his hand and turns his head to shout to Sean, who has draped himself next to the espresso machine.  
“Stop fondling that damn thing and get ready to serve!” Sean grins, guilelessly.  
“Do not attempt to separate me from Magneto! Our love is meant to be!”  
“Like Harry and Ginny!” Wanda giggles. Erik walks behind the counter and takes a deep breath as the first of the caffeine zombies stagger in. He ignores Sean telling Wanda, very seriously, that Harry should have married Luna.

The rest of the morning is, for _Edie’s_ , uneventful. Coffee and tea and other beverages are made and sold, sandwiches get consumed, crumbs and spills are dealt with and so on. Another staff minion turns up after Wanda and Pietro have been dispatched to their temporary exile in the name of education, and Erik gets on the phone to his supplier of pastries over the last shipment of croissants. For two pins, he’d re jig the kitchen area behind the staff break room, and make them himself, but he can’t actually manage on _no_ sleep, and he can’t quite afford to hire a baker. Yet.

Erik allows himself a lunch break in the café proper for once, keeping an eye on the chaos Sean seems to be capable of controlling so far. His little idiot tormentor hasn’t been in for a while, and Erik is relieved about that. Idly, he wonders why he’s never seen Charles-whatever in here, since that first sandwich. He’s obviously friendly with his fellow mutants, given that Logan thought dumping him on the Trio was a good idea, but he’s never been back to Edie’s. And after he’d _promised_ Wanda he would be less scary. Ah well. Maybe he doesn’t like coffee, after all. Erik turns back to his books and finishes his toasted sandwich as the bell above the door jangles.

Two suited men walk in. The hair on the back of Erik’s neck tingles. These men are not good news; although he’s not quite certain what or who they are bringing their bad news to. He looks at Sean, and shuffles his papers meaningful. Sean nods.  
“What can I get you?” he says, brightly and vacuously. Erik watches the two dismiss Sean as a harmless coffee selling idiot, and sighs.  
“Got some questions for ya.” Thug One says.  
“Got ID or a warrant?” Sean fires back. The two blink. “Cause I’m on duty and the boss is a real-“

“Less chatter, more coffee, Sean.” Erik snaps.  
“-presence in the café.” Sean finishes, and, rolling his eyes in apology, turns back to polishing Magneto. The suits focus sharply on Erik. Erik gives them his best smile.  
“Excuse me, sir, have you got-“  
“YOU have five minutes to explain who you are, what you want and why I should give it to you.” Erik says, coolly. The suits bridle, but they sit. One pulls out a photo.  
“Have you seen this man?”  
“Haven’t said who you are yet.” Erik says, neutrally. 

Thing Two waves that aside.  
“We’ll get there.” He pushes the picture at Erik. He looks at it. It is of a younger, skinner Charles Whatever, Logan’s friend. He looks like he’s wearing hospital scrubs. He looks scared. The suppression collar is very, very evident. Erik waits.  
“Seen him about?” Thing One says, hopefully.  
“Maybe, maybe not.” Erik says. “Who did you say you’re working for?”  
“The public good, Mr... Edie?” Erik snorts, but doesn’t correct the man. He named the café after his mother, because he could.

“Oh?” Erik wants to know more about what these people are after, and why, before he throws them out of his café. He leves the who are you questions alone, for the moment.  
“This man, this man is a potential threat, you see, we’ve come to check up on him.” Thing Two says. Erik says nothing.  
“He was recently released from a half-way house.” Thing One says. “For _mutants.”_ Sean drops a cup. The shattering sound distracts the Things long enough for Erik to take a deep breath, and count to ten in three languages.  
“Released?” Erik said, calmly. “Not escaped? He’s wearing a collar in the picture.”  
“Well, yeah, legally, and everything, but he could take it off anytime!” Thing Two says.

“He doesn’t have any control. You know what people like that are like.” Thing One chimes in. Sean drops behind the counter, ostensibly to find the dustpan and brush. The local regulars all lean away from Erik’s table. Erik concentrates, hard. Much as he now wants to school these two, it might well be counterproductive. He looks at the door instead. It swings open, obediently.  
“Yes.” He says, quietly. He’s not sure what his face looks like, but both Thing One and Thing Two go pale.  
“I do know what people like that are like.” He says, and grins, humourlessly. The metal framed chairs the Things are sat in spin round and head for the door, dragging the Things with them. Erik watches them jump out of the chairs and hurry towards the door. Hands in his pockets, he strolls after them. Sean starts wiping the counter. The Things try and regain their dignity in front of his café.

“You are not welcome in this place.” Erik says, softly, but audibly, in such a way that the Things know what people like him mean, when they say things like that. He watches them hurry off to their car, and ensures it runs over a nail- or nail like piece of metal, anyway, in such a way as to guarantee a slow, ugly puncture, in an hour or so. It’s not enough.  
“Sean.” Erik says, abruptly, shutting the door. Sean looks eager and also terrified.  
“Boss?”  
“Your friend, the one you call the Prof.”  
“Charles?” Sean says, startled. Erik nods.  
“Make sure he comes to the chess tournament special next week, won’t you?” And he grins.


	10. Chapter 10

Sean bets Charles has got some really cool stories locked away in his curly haired head. Alex might spit and snort about uptight guys afraid to breathe, privately, but he’s as careful of the Prof’s quirks as Raven and Hank are, now that Scott lives with them. Alex’s little brother thinks the prof is the best thing since library cards were invented; he tutors Scott almost every day. Or maybe Alex is afraid of Emma. Sean is, too. Whatever she says about being a lawyer, Sean is sure she’s an assassin on the side. She could be a Malfoy. Or at least part Veela. Now he has this chess thing to worry about, too. They all know Charles has to be repeatedly invited to things because he has a hard time believing he’s welcome, now. It makes Az roll his eyes, but Sean feels like he understands, now. Charles is British, and seriously anxious, about everything, but he’s not a hermit at all. And it's ok, now they know that. Charles hangs out with them whenever he’s asked. He doesn’t go clubbing, but then, neither does Hank. Sean doesn’t play chess, but Az says the Prof gives a good game. Sean has decided Charles must have been a spy, or an undercover cop, maybe a wizard who got caught by the Death Eaters, or something similar. 

Get him talking, and he’s brilliant- Sean knows his grades have improved since he got Charles to talk him through some of the essays. Push Charles too hard, though, or come up behind him too quick, or loom at him, and he’ll freeze up completely. Definitely, the dude is a veteran of some bad times. Charles Xavier has a past. There were the strange (and _stupid_ ) guys who came looking for him for example. They didn't get anywhere in the neighbourhood, though- not even at the shop where Charles works. Charles is a nice guy. Everbody likes him.  
The next time Sean’s family comes over for one of their rooftop parties, he’s pretty sure they’ll adopt him too. They can swap knitting patterns and stuff. Charles can sew like nobody else except maybe his Gram. He did something to Angel’s dress that made her look like an elf princess. Most people try and work around her wings, or hide them. Prof made them part of her look completely. 

Prof doesn’t go near the coffee shop though. Sean figures maybe Ruth put him off the place. Sean feels kinda bad about that. The Sharklings are often asking after him and the Sharkman himself told Sean to bring him along to the next chess thing. But even though Sean’s offered the prof free coffees or told him of epic music or games evenings, if they’re meeting there, Charles doesn’t come. It’s a pity. It’s going to make his life that much harder. The Bossman does not take no for an answer; and he’d told Sean to bring him. Sean would feel bad about feeding innocent Charles to the slumbering volcano that is his boss, but he knows, Erik’s not actually a homicidal maniac; he just plays one, when he wants. And Sean wants to know why Erik suddenly got interested in Charles, having chased him out of the break room by accident, only after those two scary guys came to see him.

Sighing, Sean girds up his mental loins. He is a Gryffindor, but Alex is a Ravenclaw. (Except when he’s a Slytherin) Between them, they ought to be able to get something worked out.

 

Sometimes, Charles looks around himself, or thinks about what he’s been doing this week, and he absolutely cannot imagine how he got here. The boys next door seem filled with an irresistible desire to drag him off to events or meals or movies. Something seems to have filled the other apartment renters with the urge to see him, talk to him, at least once a day. Even Logan has nodded at him, on the stairs, without frowning. It had taken him several attempts to convince the occupants of 1102- Hank, Azazel and Raven- that he really was well enough to go back to his own apartment. Even after he was able to get out of bed by himself, and could reliably make a cup of tea, Raven had used her medical authority to insist on him staying over the weekend. She’s the only medical expert he’s never been afraid of, so of course Charles isn’t going to risk her displeasure by disobeying her.

He’d suspect his neighbours wanted to make sure he hadn’t done anything foolish like setting the stove alight or flooding the bathroom, after he revealed himself as too stupid to look after himself when sick, except somehow, the friendly atmosphere he noticed when he moved in is still there. It hasn’t gone away, in fact if anything it’s got stronger, since he was ill. He can’t account for it. He just wishes they’d stop wanting to meet in the coffee shop. Erik Lensherr, mutant and proud, is not so proud of mutants who have to rely on technology to manage their mutation, it seems. 

Charles can’t blame the man; he has children and a retail business to consider. He’s hardly the first person to want Charles elsewhere, either because of fear of Charles’s power or because of his personality, but still. The coffee shop meet ups sound fun. He’d love to go, if he hadn’t already been made aware that Lennsherr doesn’t want him there. He’d tell Sean about that, to spare them both the repeated embarrassment, but the red head has a great fund of happy, amicable trust in human nature. Charles doesn’t want to turn him against his boss. 

He’s not looking forwards to Sean’s’ face when he decides Erik is right and Charles shouldn’t be around him, either. Charles is pretty sure that will happen eventually, in his heart of hearts. It always has before. Of course, Kurt and Cain, his dear, greedy stepfamily, may have been responsible for some of it, but they can’t have put off everyone who seemed willing to be friendly at first, and later changed their minds. He never even met most of Charles’ teachers or the medical attendants, or any of his fellow inmates.

Something has to be wrong with Charles himself, whatever Emma says. All the same- there’s so many people who seem to like him this time, Charles can’t help hoping that he’s wrong, that their tolerance for him will last. They all seem to like him being around. Perhaps this time he has actually made some friends. He just has to make sure Cain doesn’t find them. Cain usually appears when things are about to go wrong, not only for Charles but for his associates. It’s very probably selfish of him; but Charles likes these shared moments when Scott laughs over his homework, or Sean complains about customers being as difficult as the Ministry of Magic to deal with again. He wants to keep this. Just for a little longer.


	11. Chapter 11

Sean and Alex are perched on two battered chairs, drinking coffee (Alex) and soda (Sean), and fascinatedly staring at Charles, busy eating toast. They saw some marmite in an import shop, and felt compelled to bring Charles some- “It’s a tribute to your native land!” (Sean.) “People actually eat this? It looks like sump oil!” (Alex.) There was nothing else to do but defend Marmite’s honour with the consumption of toast. The toast is tasty, but for some reason neither of the two are eating their share. And Scott, the bottomless pit that he was, isn’t there.

Scott’s still at school. It hadn’t taken Emma very long at all to get Alex guardianship of his little brother, and Scott had moved in practically overnight. Their place is crowded now, but anyone who wants to study is welcome to come and knock on Charles’ door for a bit of quiet and/or tutoring, and he's better at it than Hank. Hank is a genius, but that means he really doesn't understand how to explain things to people who don't get it. Sean swears his grades have gone up. Charles is pretty sure that’s not actually true, but it’s flattering. He’s much less alone, now. There’s always something that needs his presence. No film, no gathering, no trip out seems to be satisfactory to the others, unless Charles is there. He can’t think why, but the others are very vehement about it all. 

Azazel seems to understand Charles’s problems with public transport, because he’s quite happy teleporting him to their chosen destination; which means Charles doesn’t arrive with a headache and shaking hands, and his enjoyment of whatever they’re doing isn’t marred by preparing to endure the return journey. Hank has lent him his bike from time to time, too. He's rea;;y staring to love the city, telepathy or no telepathy. He’s recalled from his musings by Sean.  
“Hey Prof, why don’t you like the café? Is my hot chocolate bad or something?” Sean jokes. Charles half chokes on an inhaled toast crumb. 

“Really, Sean. It’s not that, not that at all.” He manages a smile, hopefully conveying that this is the end of the matter. Alex’s eyes narrow, thoughtfully.  
“Well what is it then?” he enquires, almost casually.   
“Really, man, you gotta come!” Sean is grinning hugely, waving his hands about dramatically. Alex snorts a laugh. Charles smiles.  
“I quite fail to see why I gotta, as you put it, do anything of the sort.”  
“It’s a chess tournament!”

“So you said. Repeatedly.”   
“Nobody there’s seen you play, it’ll like, like be an education for them!” Charles flushes, touched and embarrassed.  
“I-I can’t, Sean.” He hopes the boys will let it lie. Sean only looks at him, brightly curious, and Alex sips his coffee and waits. Charles sighs. No way out of this, then.  
“Well, the... the first time I went Erik, the, the owner saw this-“ He taps the collar, agitatedly. “And banned me from the store.” He’s almost whispering.  
“No way. No way.” Sean and Alex shakes their heads, firmly.  
“Yes, he did. He said, he s-said he didn’t want a collar around his children.” 

Charles tries to smile. It looks pathetic, in Alex’s opinion. He’s seen the professor give much better fake smiles, even.  
“I can’t really blame him, you know. A lot of people are frightened by things they don’t understand, mutations are only part of-“  
“Erik’s not afraid of mutants, Prof!” Sean cuts across his babble with a decisive hand gesture. Charles continues, more quietly  
“Please stop calling me that silly nickname. I’m not a professor.”  
“No, you’re a tailor. A genius of its own, besides the stuff you help me with.” Sean replies, agreeably. “but you’re wrong about Erik. He _is_ a mutant, so are both his kids. He’s not afraid of us- them. Whatever.”  
“Really. My word, how interesting. I wonder if their powers are related?”   
“Charles!” both boys protest as one. They’ve learnt from observation, that, like Hank, he’ll break into a scientific ramble at the drop of a hat. 

Charles obediently stops talking. He prefers they call him by his name- Mr Xavier doesn’t sound right at all, and he’d much rather they use his first name.  
“Did he actually say that you were banned? To not come back?”  
“Well no, not using those words, but-“ Charles shifts, remembering the humiliation and anxiety that he’d felt, when Erik had said he didn’t want him round his children, and flushed a painful red.  
“Ask him.” Says Alex, quietly.  
“ A-And I’m not really up to big groups of people-“ Charles is getting better at shielding, at using his powers, but he’ll probably always have to have a collar on hand, unless he moves to the Antarctic, or the Empty Quarter, or somewhere similarly deserted. 

“Well, you could use this as practice!” Sean coaxes. “Come on, everyone will justbe thinking about chess, anyway.” Charles nibbles on his lip. He’s seen Erik around, but he’s always been careful to keep a respectful distance, preferring to keep a low profile, as Erik had- he thought-wanted him to.   
“Erik isn’t into hurting people.” Alex says.  
“I-I’m sure.” Charles says, huskily. “But what if you’re wrong, and he objects?” Charles doesn’t want to cause a scene.   
It’s too easy for his monitors to find out, decide he’s not _managing_ , properly and press him back into the tender, greedy care of his “family” or a hospital or half-way house again.

“Hey.” Sean says, gently. “It’ll be ok.”  
“Just give it a try.” Alex says, sounding remarkably like Charles when he’s going over Scott’s homework.   
“And if he tells you to leave, I’ll… I’ll quit!” Sean says grandly. Charles bites his lip and smiles.  
“I couldn’t ask that-“  
“You didn’t ask that.” Sean says. “Us wizards gotta stick together.” Charles blinks.  
“Wizards?”  
“Sean thinks anyone who reads all of the Harry Potters is an honorary wizard.” Alex puts in, amused.  
“It was very kind of you to lend them to me.” Charles murmurs into his toast. 

“I- I liked them.” Sean grins. “I reckon you’d be a Ravenclaw, prof. All that cleverness and, and,” He flails. Alex ducks his wildly swooping hands with the ease of long practice. “ _knowing_ things.” Charles goes pink.  
“I think I’d be a Hufflepuff.” Sean says, thoughtfully, into the silence that follows that statement. “I like my friends.” Alex kisses him, quickly.  
“W-w-wouldn’t you be a Gryfindor, like all the other Weasleys?” Charles says, almost innocently. Sean looks at him.  
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?”  
“A-and the family. Alex says-“ Alex grins. Sean looks rueful.  
“Yeah. You’re not wrong there, I guess. ‘Cept we don’t live in The Burrow.” He brightens then.  
“Hey, you’re gonna meet some of them soon.” Charles tenses. Sean doesn’t appear to notice, just keeps talking on, brightly.

“Yeah, my little sisters are coming to visit. Mom and Dad, too, but Paige and Mary will be at the chess thing- they’re interested in learning more.” Charles relaxes.  
“Your parents are coming to see you?” he says, trying to squash the anxiety and the envy he feels. Alex looks at Charles, understandingly.  
“Yeah.” Sean says. “They come up to the city about once a term; bring the girls, and have a good time.”  
“Sounds nice.” Charles says. He doesn’t think about his own family. He doesn’t have one; not since Sharon drank herself into safety. Not really. He smiles brightly, dismissing his self pity, and says, brightly  
“So. Anyone for more toast?” Sean looks hopeful. Alex groans.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles dares to enter _Edies'_ ; Wanda and Pietro rejoice in their new minions, and the chess tournament gets underway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How is Chess Tournament formed? How does rules get ~~pregnant~~ drawn up?
> 
>  
> 
> I don't know!

Erik looked up from rearranging the fourth chess set when Charles sidled nervously into _Edie’s._ The younger man was clearly worried about something; Erik could see him shifting nervously and wrapping and re wrapping the pathetic rag he was using as a scarf around his neck as he waited for his drink. Sean greeted him cheerfully and made him a hot chocolate; but even this couldn't apparently settle the poor man’s nerves. The café was slowly filling up with chess aficionados and their audience. Erik turned to greeting them and making sure everyone had the drink and seat of their choice. He started handing round the sign up lists for the speed chess rounds, and making sure everyone who wanted to would have at least one game. 

He smiled at Sean’s’ little sisters, who were busy talking to Wanda and Pietro, despite being of an exalted age, and the girls were clearly possessed of an inner spark, because they didn’t run screaming like most children. Sean’s prof had retreated to a corner by the door, and he was people watching, nervously. His hands were clenched tightly around is mug as if he was cold. Erik eyed Charles’ suppression collar with disapproval. It glinted innocently back at him. The metal they were made of tasted greasy and bitter to his power, setting his teeth on edge.   
“Thinking of playing a game?” Erik said, as he approached, and was startled to see the other man flinch and shrink as if were genuinely afraid of Erik. He hoped he was wrong.

“Oh. Um, well, I- if nobody minds?” he said, and took a quick, nervous sip of his hot chocolate. His voice sounded better than the time Erik had caught him in the breakroom, but not by much.  
“This is a chess night.” Erik said. “I think a lot of people here don’t mind playing chess.” He smiled. Charles looked away, and flushed.  
“You’re the bossman, according to Sean.” He said, finally, stroking his collar nervously. “So I s-s-suppose I should be asking if you minded?” He didn’t look Erik in the eye as he spoke. Erik felt as if he was bracing himself for something. Erik thought of the two Things and their attempts to convince him that Charles was a threat, and was startled to feel a thin thread of distant anger.

“No.” he said, firmly, watching as Charles began to relax a little. “I don’t mind. Good to have you here.” Charles _beamed_. There was no other word for it. It was surprising how much brighter his eyes looked, when he was smiling. Quietly, Erik decided to have the conversation about strange men, and suppression collars and what the _hell_ Charles might have got himself into, another time.  
“I- Thank you.” He said, and then, a little shyly “Will you be playing a game?” Erik smiled back, possibly with a little smugness.  
“I usually play the winner.”  
“Oh.” Charles said, but a faintly speculative look came into his eyes. “I might sign up then.” Erik handed him the sheet, and a pen, and watched him sign his name.

_Charles Xavier._ The name rang a faint bell. Wanda thundered up to them.  
“Prof Charles!” she said eagerly. “You came!” Charles crouched slightly, and looked her in the eye.  
“It was the chess.” He said in a serious tone. “And the hot chocolate.” Wanda smiled.  
“And Daddy won’t make you run away again.” she said, sternly.  
“I promised Wanda.” Erik said, a little awkwardly, when Charles gave him a startled glance. “She said I was mean. I don’t want to be mean.” He smiled at Chalres, fully, for the first time. Charles blinked, his eyes widening.  
“I’m sure you’re not.” Charles said, faintly.

“I’m sorry, what?” he said next, as Wanda tugged on his sleeve.   
“I want to whisper, even if it’s not polite, ‘cause I forgot how to talk with my hands.” Wanda said. Charles tilted his head obediently, keeping a wary eye on Erik. Wanda whispered slightly damply into Charles’ ear. Erik tried hard not to listen, even as Charles’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.  
“Well?” Wanda said, hands on where her hips would one day be. Charles blinked.   
“I.” he said. And stopped. “I, well, that’s good to know?” he said, faintly. Wanda nodded gleefully.   
“And?”

“Yes, as long as E- as your father doesn’t mind, I’m happy to join the ranks of your minions.” Charles said, and looked worriedly at Erik as if he genuinely thought Erik might object.  
“Sooner or later, everyone gives in to Wanda or her brother.” Erik said. “We can’t have pets; because of the café, so they settled on collecting minions, instead.” Charles’ mouth opened again.  
“I suppose I’m a minion now, then." he said, slightly amused.  
“Good.” Wanda said, firmly. “And can I learn more about hand talking? Pietro thinks it’s the best thing _ever_. That’s cause he can talk in class-” 

She stopped and eyed her father, who looked back at her politely. Charles looked anxious.  
“As long as you both get good grades, and are never in trouble for hurting your fellow pupils or talking in class-“ Erik gave his daughter one of his Parental Looks and she shuffled. “Then your teachers just have to fend for themselves.” Charles snickered. Erik looked at him, and he stopped, with a gulp.  
“Come on, new minion, let’s go colour ‘till they start the chess.” Wanda said, grabbing the sleeve of Charles’s tweedy jacket. Charles gave Erik an apologetic nod as he was towed past Erik by the small and extremely determined girl. Gravely, Erik nodded back. 

Erik grinned to himself, once they had gone. He wondered how long Charles would be able to take being one of Wanda’s minions. He picked up the signup sheet and turned to talk to Logan, who stomped through the door as if the floor had recently purposely said something insulting about his mother. Assuming he had a mother, of course.  
“Chess, Logan?” Erik said, surprised.   
“Mm here for the coffee.” Logan said shortly. Pietro gave a glad cry and raced up to him.  
“Yay!” he cheered. “Minion!” Logan glared at Erik, daring him to say a word. Erik raised his hands, innocently.

“Coffee?” He said, brightly. “First cup’s on the house, for minions.” Logan mouthed something obscene at him over Pietro’s head.  
“Say that aloud where my children can hear, and I will remove every scrap of metal from your body.” Erik said, calmly, and turned to head for the counter, where the queue of coffee-addicts was beginning to reach critical level. Idly, he checked the hot chocolate supplies as he passed. Charles would need a fresh cup soon.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you can win at chess, you can win at life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I really don’t know how chess games work, so I've skipped most of the actaul playing. Sorry.

The tournament went past quickly. Erik ignored most of the early action in favour of keeping the caffeine flowing. Chess watching required plenty of refreshment; one of the reason he held these chess afternoons. The chess tournaments were a monthly thing, more or less; and he was always pleased he’d thought of them. Erik always played the winner in the last ceremonial match; and he usually won, before awarding them one free hot drink per day for a month. Except in summer, when they had the option of picking a cold one, or were a member of staff in which case they got free drinks _anyway._. Hank had often been that player before Az and Raven took up with him; now he didn’t have so much free time, anyone who entered could win- at least until they played Erik.

Charles Xavier was good at chess. _Really good_. Erik stared, bemused, at the tiny struggling forces on the chess set in front on him. Charles was in serious danger of _winning._ Erik would never had guessed that his nervous, self effacing manner, concealed such a gifted and ruthless chess player. Charles’ hands, usually fumbling into his pockets, or tangled up in each other, were strong and elegant moving over a chess board, moving and removing pieces in decisive swiftness. Even the light caught his eyes differently. His shoulders, un hunched revealed a graceful line of back, and even with the collar, his throat was-

Sternly, Erik set aside distractions. Charles’s appearance didn’t matter. The coffee machine didn’t matter. Sean’s frantic attempts to keep up with the chess game and serve coffee didn’t matter. The faces around him, even those of his children, didn’t matter. All that mattered was the chess board and the forces and opportunities it held. Erik was not a particularly competitive man, but chess, properly played chess (that is, chess where he _won_ ), was an art. His art. One Erik never minded sharing, of course, but- Charles lifted his head from contemplation of the board and smiled at him, a gentle, sly conspirator’s smile. 

He moved a pawn. His sea-coloured eyes glinted in the light, in an entirely unnecessarily beautiful distraction. Erik frowned. He couldn’t… quite see the point of the move; and so he was immediately wary.  
“You’re good at this.” He observed, finally. A smile jerked at the corner of Charles’ mouth.  
“I know.” He said, hoarsely, to the board. “Practice, mostly.” Erik made his move. Charles hummed, thoughtfully. Moved a final piece.  
“Check.” He said, quietly. Erik blinked. Studied the board again. Moved his king.  
Swiftly, Charles moved a piece in response.

“Checkmate.” He said, cheerfully. Erik blinked again. Charles was right. He tipped over his king, slowly.  
“So it would seem.” Erik had just _lost_ at chess. How unusual. Somewhere behind him, Sean cackled. Erik offered his hand, over the board. Charles blinked at it, puzzled, for a moment, before taking it and shaking it, quickly and gently. His shoulders hunched, and he glanced at Erik, warily.  
“Good game.” Erik said, over Sean’s further glee. Charles smiled, tightly. Pietro tugged on his sleeve.  
“Mr Charles?” He said, hopefully. “Can me an’ Wanda share you?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Charles said, anxiously. Pietro frowned.  
“Wanda said you were her minion, but I wanna learn how to play chess like that, too.” Pietro said. Charles’s forehead creased. He looked at Erik who offered him a sardonic smile.  
“I—I‘m sure your father can teach you all you need to know-“ Idly, Erik wondered what was bothering Charles now; he’d kept his cool through the tournament, why was he tensing up only after he won?  
“Well, yeah. Dad knows _everything._ ” Pietro said. “But you beat him.” he sounded approving. Charles tensed more, glancing worriedly between father and son.

“I-I’m sure it was just a, a lucky fluke.” He said, weakly. Erik frowned. Was Charles afraid that Pietro would get in trouble with Erik, for wanting to learn chess from someone who’d beaten him? Charles started putting away the chess pieces in their box, fumbling slightly.  
“Please?” Pietro almost whined. “Wanda says she doesn’t mind sharing.” Charles smiled, briefly. Erik noticed Charles’s hands were shaking. Something was wrong, here. He hoped it wasn’t him.  
“Pietro.” He said, quietly. “He’s tired. Don’t bother Mr Xavier now. Ask him the next time he comes in.” He looked pointedly at his son. Pietro nodded.  
“’Kay.” He said, obediently. “Hey, Mr Logan! Can I try your coffee?”

“Just you try it, kid!” Logan shouted back. Pietro ran off.  
“You know, you get a daily free hot drink for a month, now.” Erik said, to Charles, as the crowd began to disperse. Charles smiled at him, strained.  
“I-“ he began. Erik continued over him, cutting off the demurral or offer of absence he had a strong feeling was coming. Why was Charles so afraid? Erik though of the Things again, and resolved to find out more.  
“Doesn’t have to be coffee, but it’s here.” He said, gently. Charles blinked at him, and ran a finger round his shirt collar. The metal of the suppression collar winked at Erik, sly and taunting.

“But I still- I wear this.” Charles said, painfully. “I don’t want to be any trouble.” Erik bit back his immediate response.  
“Well, if you don’t come in, I can’t award the coffee to anyone _else._ ” he said, neutrally, after a short pause. Charles drew in a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.  
“In the interests of f-full disclosure.” He said bravely, standing up. “You- you should probably know, I-I’m a telepath.”  
“I’m a metal bender.” Erik said. “And a coffee shop owner.” He smiled. Charles was still pale and strained. Why _did_ this worry the other man so? He felt a strange need to reassure him, as he would one of his own children. "Did you think that would bother me? He said. "You’re one of our own, now. You know that, right?” Charles stared at him, blankly. Unreassured. Erik felt sweat prickle along his forehead. He forced himself to continue, low voiced and urgent.  
“You are, Charles.” He insisted. “You live down the block, you’re a mutant- a minion-“ he smiled “Of course you’re one of our own.” 

He let go of Charles’s arm, but the other man didn’t move away. Erik awarded himself a tiny victory. Charles’ eyes seemed slightly wet. Erik looked away, to give the other man a moment. He put the box on top of the board, and turned back to Charles, expectantly.  
“I- you’re all very kind.” Charles said, blinking hard.  
“Not really.” Erik said. “Just decent. Sometimes.” He smiled back. “Want your first free drink, now?”  
“Hot chocolate, please.” Charles breathed. He seemed ridiculously pleased by the prospect.  
“Sean!” Erik called, over his shoulder. “Hot chocolate! My usual coffee! And two toasted cheese sandwiches!”  
“Coming up, boss!” Charles looked at him.  
“Two sandwiches?” he said, questioning.  
“What?” Erik said. “You don’t like cheese? You know you’re too thin.” He smiled again. Charles beamed back at him, a sudden, heart stopping smile.


	14. Chapter 14

Erik looked up from his papers and stifled a curse. Charles was late for their now-regular chess game. This meant he was going to be going over delivery papers in the breakroom for far longer than he really wanted to. He hoped nothing’s gone wrong at work, again. Erik doesn’t like the tailors/dry cleaners where Charles works very much. They seem to be exploiting Charles’s… willingness to please, (not to say vulnerability). It’s not the odd covering of a shift for a sick or unreliable co-worker; that, as a small business owner himself, Erik understands. But they’ve been calling him in on no notice, a lot lately- sometimes even away from his chess tournaments- and cancelling his shifts, too. It’s poor business practice, Erik thinks. They’d better be paying Charles all the hours he works. He tries to ignore the little inner voice insists that they get away with it at least partly because mutants find it a little harder to get work, even in a dress repair shop.

Perhaps that’s just Erik’s judgement speaking, though. Erik would be surprised that Charles puts up with it; but having got to know his fellow mutant, mostly over chess, he’s not surprised at all. Charles is incredibly accommodating of his fellow sentients’ foibles. Erik would call him a gentle soul, and leave it at that, if it weren’t for the fact, after playing chess with him, he knows the man has a hidden savage and ruthless core. It’s a pity it only seems to be drawn out over chess pieces.  
“Hey boss?” Erik looked up.  
“What is it Sean?”  
“Here’s your tea; I’ll get on Charles’s hot choc when I see him, and bring it back here.” Sean said, and slapped down a chessboard and the green tea over his papers. 

The box containing the pieces slid dangerously close to the edge of the table. Sean made a grab for it, muttering  
“Accio box!” It didn’t fall off the table. Sean beamed.  
“What.” Erik said, flatly, staring at the glass cup “Is this?”  
“Green tea, boss.” Sean seems remarkably cheerful, for a boy about to die. “You’re cutting back on caffeine during chess matches now, remember?” Erik growled, but clearly his powers are fading- Sean doesn’t flinch. Morosely, he sniffed the tea. Greenish and warm, but otherwise… “It doesn’t even _smell_ like coffee.” He complained, dourly.  
“That’s because it’s tea, boss.” Sean said, patiently, 

The door in the café beyond jingled open, and then Charles hurried into the breakroom, white faced and flustered.   
“S-sorry I’m late, I- something came up.” Erik got up and began patiently extracting the other man from his coat, scarf, and gloves. After looking after Wanda and Pietro for eight years, it’s a hard habit to break; as soon as someone starts struggling with clothing in his vicinity, Erik is there to help. Charles was used to this by now, and just kept talking as Erik slung his wet coat over a chair back.  
“Sorry, something came up and work, and then the rain- I hope you haven’t been waiting long-“   
“Not a problem.” Erik said, shortly. “What’s wrong?” Charles faltered.   
“What?” he said, evasively.  
“Have they been over loading your shifts again?” Erik said, preparing to get angry on Charles’s behalf. Charles paused, and swallowed. Sean brought over the hot chocolate, setting it on the table. Charles fumbled for his wallet.

“Hey, no, man.” Sean said, interpreting the look in Erik’s eye out of long habit. “Still on the house, remember? Put those Galleons away.”   
“Oh, more the opposite, really.” Charles gave them both a wan smile. “I’ve- they’ve let me go.” Sean sighed, gustily.  
“Sucks, dude.” Erik looked at him, and Sean wandered away, back to the café proper. Charles stared at his feet.  
“Sit down and talk.” Erik said, calmly. “Chess can wait.”  
“It’s- it’s silly really.” Charles said, still looking down, as he sat. “I mean- I have some savings, and there was the compensation, and I’ve got some of that, but still- I don’t like not having a job. I- it worries me. And, and, they don’t like it.”

“Compensation?” Erik said, shifting his papers and the chessboard to one side. He wondered who “They” were. He also wondered what Charles had survived. He had thought for a while that Charles was a survivor of _something._  
“E- My lawyer, when she found out I’d been in the Institute for Mutation Management before it was shut down-“  
“Good god, you were in there?” Erik said, startled. “How did you survive?” Charles hunched up further, bending over his hot chocolate.  
“Oh- they were kinder to the small children of course, but-“ Erik’s stomach turned. 

Everyone knew about the scandal of the Institute for Mutant Management. Everyone. It was one of the most recent and most terrible healthcare scandals. All the things people said never happened anymore- neglect, abuse, experimentation, exploitation, deaths- you name it, it happened there. The Institute had been run by the Government as a soft option, kinder than detention or jail, for troublesome mutants of all ages, a safe place for them and for their neighbours for forty years, before it hit the headlines. And Charles had been a small child there? Impulsively, driven by awe and compassion, Erik put his hands out across the table, and seized both of Charles’ hands. 

Charles latched on almost desperately.  
“You are one of the strongest people I have the privilege of knowing.” Erik said.   
“What, just for having gone _there_ for three years?” Charles gave him a faint, tired smile. “Hardly. I was seven, I didn’t have much of an impact-“  
“No.” Erik said, quietly.  
“I mean, the others got the message out, got it shut down, I just-“  
“No.” Erik said again, and found his grip tightening. “Not just for that. For having gone through that, and still having the strength to remain…” he fumbled for the right words.

“Kind. Helpful. Yourself.” Erik said, finally. Charles looked up at him in surprise.  
“You- you really mean that.” Abruptly he let go of Erik’s hands, as if burnt. “Sorry.” He said, flushing. “I- skin to skin, even with the collar-“ he swallowed, and flinched. “Feelings- leak. Strong ones. I’m sorry.”  
“You said you were a telepath.” Erik said mildly, and held out his hand again. Charles gazed at him as if he’d never seen him before.  
“I- Yes, I did.” He said, and took a slow sip of his hot chocolate.   
“Is _that_ why you can get Pietro to do his homework before he starts running laps?” Erik smiled. Charles did not.

“No.” he said, wide eyed and terrified again. “No, I- it’s under control, I’m fine, I- I would never-”  
“Charles, I was joking, I’m sorry.” Erik said, horrified. “I know you would never harm a soul, let alone my children, or I’d never let you near them.” Charles took a shaky breath and rubbed his hands over his face. Erik left his hand open, lying across the table, and waited. Quietly, Charles’s hand stole back into his.  
“Sorry.” Charles said, timidly. “But they- they’re very firm about that.” He smiled, apologetically. “I- it’s hard not to be paranoid sometimes, but they check, and I don’t want to slip up and-“  
“Who are they?” Erik said, quietly, trying to remain calm. “The Institute was completely shut down fifteen years ago-“  
“Oh, yes, it was, but- my family was very- I couldn’t adjust, couldn’t manage, and-“ Charles said, almost calmly, apart from the strange, jerky, stop-and start pattern of his speech. Erik wondered what words Charles was cutting out of his speech at every pause.   
Charles took a deep breath.

“I- I went from there to a children’s home- I think my mother visited a few times, then, but she’d re-married, and really-“  
Erik fought back a wave of anger and condemnation. Charles’s mother had just _abandoned_ him?  
“Your hot chocolate’s getting cold.” He said. Charles gave him a weak smile and fumbled for his mug. He drank a gulp of it. Erik tried his green tea. It was not entirely vile.  
“Erik, really.” Charles said, smiling. “Tea isn’t intrinsically bad.”  
“Hmpf.” Erik said. “Can you- who are “they?”” he said, abruptly. Charles blinked.  
“Oh- well, the social workers, and, and people; they don’t really like releasing someone with as powerful a level of telepathy as me. I- sometimes I didn’t manage very well, so they- I had to go back.”  
“That’s why you hate hospital.” Erik said, quietly.

Charles nodded.  
“I- it’s so hard, and they don’t understand, even with the collar, there’s always so much pain.” He said, quietly. “And, well, they have so little legal recourse, thanks to Emma-“  
“Emma?”  
“My lawyer. She remembered me, from when we were both small. We used to play together, before my father died.”  
“Ah.” Erik said, and drank more tea.  
“She- as soon as she heard I was still, still alive, she came to my half-way house, and she made them release me, and turn over the compensation money.” Charles smiled, fondly. “She charged me a dollar.” He added. “And, well, holding down a job, that’s one of the checks for being a normal, healthy member of society. So if I’m out of work-“  
“You think they’ll try and force you back into care.” Erik said. Charles nodded again, miserably. 

Erik suddenly thought of Thing One and Thing Two. Were they part of this?   
“I- before the first chess tournament, there was a funny event one day.” Erik said, suddenly. He explained what had happened. Charles blanched further.  
“You threw them out? It could be.” He said, low. “It could be. Or maybe- I think I have a stepbrother-”  
“But, why?” Erik said. “You’ve committed no crime, you’re a good person, you’ve never hurt anyone-“  
“The compensation’s enough to live on for a while.” Charles said. “But I’m sure they think it would be better spent on keeping me safe in residential care.” He shivered.

“They can try.” Erik said. “But they won’t succeed. Not against all of us.” If the Things were part of some medical or government holdover who wanted Charles back under their control, he thought, they were about to get the fight of their miserable _lives_. Quietly, Erik began to plot. Whom should he contact first? Charles blinked at him.  
“What?” he said, still bewildered. “What do you mean; “All of us?””  
“Charles.” Erik said, patiently, squeezing his hand, so Charles could feel his sincerity. “I told you, you’re one of us, now. You are not alone in this. Not ever again.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picnics in the park can lead to unexpected things.

Charles stared at the red faced man at his door. Actually, all of Azazel was red, not just his face. Charles was not surprised by that.  
“What?” he said, again. Az sighed. Really, the small telepath was very slow at times.  
“I have been instructed to kidnap you by my bird, and to request your presence at this picnic, by my beast.” He said again, patiently. “Come. Get your picnicking skills and equipment.”  
“Both of them?” Charles said, as he opened his door wider, allowing Azazel inside.  
“Yes.” Azazel said. “They are already at the park; is quiet today.” He paused and then added: “Although I respect free will; your company is wish of both my lovers. So you are coming.”

Charles smiled, faintly, and nodded.   
“Raven found out about me losing my job, didn‘t she?” He peered into his fridge, thoughtfully. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Az shrug.  
“Possibly. Possibly she wants to ask you about clothes again.” the devil shaped mutant replied, impassively. Charles wavered, slightly. The weather was lovely, and he would enjoy being out with the others, but… He bit his lip.   
“Is not pity.” Az said, quietly, almost as if he were the mind reader. “Raven spends her pity on sick children; Hank on poor scientists, and I have no pity for anyone or anything. I am kidnapping you, remember? This makes me a bad man, yes?” He raised his hands into claw shapes, and hissed, tail whipping about him dramatically. Charles sighed, mentally, and decided to give in to the inevitable as gracefully as possible.  
“I’ll get my coat. Do you need any potato salad?”

“Yes.” Az said, solemnly. “There is always a need in me for potato salad. And Raven likes it also.” Charles pulled a tub out of the fridge and set it on the side. He added some fruit to the pile, and looked for a bag.  
“Anything else?” Charles looked up to see Azazel holding out his coat. He shrugged into it, gratefully.  
“No.” He had his wallet, and his phone and his keys… he didn’t need anything else, did he?  
“Good. Take my hand, and close eyes, professor.” Az smiled.  
“I keep saying-“ The world swirled, everything disappearing and reappearing in blurs of black and red, before Charles’ eyes. 

“-I’m not actually a professor.” he said, and opened his eyes to the park.  
“Only on paper.” Raven said, happily. “You came!” She hugged him. “Come sit.”  
“Paper’s where it counts…” Charles said, as Raven seized his sleeve and began dragging him towards the rugs. Az chuckled, a little darkly.  
“Not always. You have _soul_ of an academic, of a learned man, Charles. Accept it.” His tail gave the other man a little push. Charles stumbled, slightly, and sat down between Hank and Raven, awkwardly. They both smiled at him.  
“You certainly have the brains of a clever man, Charles.” Hank said, amiably, and watched him blush.  
“Hey, that’s a thought.” Raven said, reaching for the potato salad. “You could go back to college.” Charles blinked at her. College?  
“Now that you have more time.” She said, calmly, before chattering on.

“Damn, this potato salad is _good._. Charles, you mind reader, how did you know it’s my favourite?” Charles tensed. His heart lurched.  
“I told him.” Az said, quickly. Raven frowned.  
“I- I’m not reading your mind!” he said, leaning away. “I promise!” Reflexively, Charles grabbed his collar, winding his fingers through it.   
“Oh crap, I didn’t mean- I’m sorry.” Raven said, quickly.   
“I- I wouldn’t hurt you like that.” Charles said staring at the ground. “Any of you.”  
“We know you wouldn’t.” Hank said, rumbling and low. Charles gave him a quick, strained smile. Hank was kind.  
“I’ve been practicing, with Emma, you know.” He said, almost randomly. “My lawyer, she’s- she’s a telepath. Sometimes… we go somewhere, and, and I try-”  
“Still learning about your powers?” Raven said. “Cool.” 

 

“I think… that cloud looks like a giraffe.” Azazel said, a little later.  
“It’s a horse.” Raven protested. “Giraffes don’t have tails like that.”  
“It’s got a very long neck, for a horse.” Charles ventured, gazing upwards. He’d never tried could watching before. It was very relaxing, lying down and simply watching the sky blow past, above him. Of course, it could be the company, too.  
“Is mutant giraffe.” Azazel offered. “Our kind of creature.” His tail angled over their heads, directing their eyes.  
“Now _that_ cloud.” He said, happily. “it is a kitten.”  
“It’s a chair!” Raven said.  
“And that cloud… looks like a fine example of some cumulonimbus.” Hank said, slowly. Raven giggled, and tugged on Hanks’ ear.  
“You really have problems getting into this game, don’t you?” she said, cheerfully.  
“Well, it is a cloud shape.” Charles, said, quickly.

“Hank is saying that cloud… looks like a cloud?” Azazel said, amused. He squinted upwards. “Huh.” He said, finally. “Hank is not wrong. That is very… cloud shaped cloud.” Charles let his eyes drift closed. Azazel and Raven were having some kind of discussion over his head. It was odd, to be out and about in public, and yet feel so calm. Charles opened his eyes again, and peered at the great blue bulk next to him. Of course, anyone with Hank on their side would feel calm. He was very clever and also very strong. And furry.  
“Charles?” Raven said, tentatively.  
“Yes, Raven?” Charles wondered if he should sit up.  
“What’s it like? Being a telepath, I mean?” Charles slumped. Trust Raven to ask the hard questions.  
“I- it’s hard to explain.” He said, eventually. “It’s- it just is.”  
“Because of the collar?” Hank said, quietly.  
“No- well, yes. It’s just, I can’t there aren’t the words, or if there are I don’t know if they mean the same thing to you as to me…” he trailed off.

“Could you show me?” Raven said, gently. Charles’s eyes went wide, and he began struggling to sit up.  
“What?” Hank looked worried, Charles thought, vaguely, through his shock.  
“You said, um, earlier, that you were learning- could you ever show me?” Raven said. “Or- wait, is that me being demanding and intrusive? It is, isn’t it?” She bit her lip, and turned blonde.  
“Oh, no.” Charles assured her, hastily. “No one’s ever- Emma knows what it’s like. But-“ he paused. “I’d, I’d have to take the collar off. I might- see things.”  
“You can take it off then?” Azazel said. Charles nodded, warily.  
“So long as I’m…it’s under control.” He said. “With Emma… she can shut me down, if I panic, or, or something happens. This city, the park- there’s a lot of people.”

“Could you stop me jumping?” Azazel said, curious. Charles shuddered.  
“I wouldn’t…” Az looked at him. “No.” He said eventually. “Not if you did it without thinking about it.” Azazel looked ineffably pleased. His tail snaked out and wrapped itself delicately around one of Charles’s ankles.   
“There.” He said, expansively. “You start to panic, I jump, I take you and me only, somewhere…  
“Quiet. Empty of people, but not animals.” Charles said, wistfully. “That would work.” He could feel Azazel’s satisfaction and interest through his tail.  
“But.” He started, and paused, unsure of just when he had decided to go along with Raven’s request. “Ah, skin to skin, I can pick up a little, even with the collar. You know-“  
“Wow.” Hank said. “What about fur?” he held out a paw in inquiry, even as Az said.  
“I do not mind. Is part of you, yes? Your mind?”

“I- I-“ Charles said, uncertain. He took Hank’s hand. A sense of … Hank-ness came with it. Hank was curious, and analytical, but about Charles-as-a-person, not about Charles-as-a-problem. It made all the difference. Charles smiled, waveringly.  
“Hey.” Raven said again. “Would it over load you, if, if I held your hand, too?” Charles shook his head, mute in astonishment at their lack of fear, of disapproval. Erik hadn’t minded either, but Charles felt, Erik was… different, somehow. Raven grinned, and wrapped her fingers around Charles’ free hand. A warm surge of friendly Raven-feelings came through as her skin touched his. Charles twitched, slightly.  
“Hey- should we be feeling anything back?” Raven said, hopefully.  
“Um.. no.” Charles said, reluctantly, as her face fell. “But… if you don’t mind… I could, up, un fasten my collar… just for a little bit?” He turned to Azazel 

“You could jump me somewhere, and jump away in time for you to be safe, right?” he said, hopefully. Charles really didn’t want to disappoint Raven, or Hank, at all. If it was only for a second or two… Az looked at him, and said, quite gently.  
“I could take us somewhere, yes. I would not leave you there, my friend.” His teeth, as he smiled, were very white against his crimson face.Charles took a deep breath, and dropped Hank and Raven’s hands. He reached for his collar, and began to fumble with the first pin catch.

“Well…” he said, quietly. “Here we go.”


	16. Chapter 16

The first rush of experiencing the world-with-telepathy was always dizzying and splendid, Charles thought, as he unsnapped the last of the three pins and pulled the open collar away from his neck. He breathed, deeply, as the _sight-sound-smell_ of his friends and the people in the park, and the city beyond, washed over him. He fought for his balance and his shields as the tide of new sensation rose and rose. Slowly, Charles felt the barriers around his self rise and lock into place, creating the gap between _Charles_ and _Other_ that he needed to stay himself, and sane. His telepathy, now firmly anchored, leapt out and up and around.  
“Ah.” Charles said, and blinked. He looked at the others; who had all frozen, as if at the sight of some miracle. He smiled, and felt them startle back into thinking/feeling as their shock dissipated.   
“Are you... is this ok?” Hank said, tentatively. His mind was steadily running through a series of prime numbers, in an attempt to stay calm and not overwhelm Charles. How kind.

“So far.” Charles said, and felt a warm pulse of friendship as Azazel tightened his tail’s grip on Charles’ ankle, as a gentle reassurance.  
“What do you see?” Raven said. Charles blinked at her. “Yes, I know see is a very inadequate word, you know what I mean.” She snorted. “Damn, you’re good at this.”  
“Oh!” Charles said, and hastily shored up his shields to keep Charles _in_ as well as the world _out_ “Sorry.”  
“Don’t be.” Raven said, and shifted to lean against him, pushing Charles back against Hank. Charles was briefly concerned, but although both Raven and Hank were warm with friendly interest and, even a little affection for him, none of it was sexual or romantic.  
“Good.” Azazel said, laughing a little, as Charles blushed again. “Now, can you show us?” 

Charles shut his eyes.  
Slowly and gently, very, _very_ gently, he built up an image of the world as he perceived it, and offered it to his friends. The visual parts were mostly the same- but… more so. The simple darting drops of animal minds, all sensation and no verbal thought, flashed through the park like searching torches as the creatures dashed about, both the tame pets being exercised and the wild or feral ones trying to survive. The music of the minds around him sang in the bones. Raven put her hand out. Charles took it, and one of Hanks, without really thinking about it.  
People came and went through the park, layered over with the muttering personal information of their stream-of-consciousness thoughts and feelings, trailing banners like huge wings, or clouds of smoke that draped them like strange robes and hovered after they had left. The city beyond the park was overlaid by an ever-shifting symphony, half-music, half-colour. The mind-glow of over a million people, thinking, feeling, living, burnt like the aura borealis. 

Azazel muttered something in Russian that was mildly obscene. Charles smiled. “Holy shit.” Raven said, heartfelt.  
 _It’s not quite how it is_ Charles admitted freely. _but telepathy has sensations only telepaths can perceive._  
 _So this is a translation?_ Hank said, fascinated. “How fascinating.” He remarked aloud. His wonder was steadily being eclipsed by his curiosity. Charles smiled.  
“That tickles!” Raven said. Quietly, Charles began to withdraw. He didn’t want them to get too close; and hurt themselves. He opened his eyes.  
“That’s what it’s like?” Raven said, unnecessarily, aloud. Charles nodded. “How is it you don’t just hire yourself out as a drug?” she said, bluntly. Underneath, Charles could sense, she was trying not to ask if he minded the collar‘s restrictions. “Because, shit, if I could-“

“Most people are too afraid of telepaths, of knowing or being known.” Charles said, quietly. “And… most people aren’t my friends. They wouldn’t get… things, the way you do, from me.”  
“What’s your geographical limit?” Hank said, changing the subject slightly. “Because it felt like… like you could see, I mean perceive, all the way through the city.”   
“I can.” Charles said, a little nervously. “That’s, we’re not sure, but Emma says, definitely further than her.”  
“How far-?” Az began.  
“Sixty miles.” Charles said, still tense. _They don’t mind_ he reminded himself, and got a gentle flicker of confirmation from Azazel that this was so.  
“No diminishment at all?” Hank said. “That’s incredible!” Charles shrugged.

“Not if I can’t… control myself.” He said, and looked at his hands. “But you are.” Raven said. “Oh, wait, do you mean the-“  
“Panic attacks? Yes, although it turned out, they’re partly triggered by medicine I don’t take any more.”   
Hank and Ravel looked at each other, and Raven shifted more of her weight onto Charles, pinning him in place without fear. Azazel tightened his tail grip on Charles’s ankle again, friendly.  
“So. Your telepathy is strong, and your mind is strong.” He said, cheerfully. “Why the collar all the time?”  
“It’s- Charles shivered. “ _I don’t want to go back to hospital._ he said, before he could stop himself. _collar keeps them/panic attacks away._ He stopped, and made himself breathe for a minute, watching the clouds. Azazel hissed, quietly. Hank clumsily put an arm round his shoulders in a quick hug.

“Change of subject.” Raven said, brightly. “Who wants cake?” Everything is richer, with his telepathy free. Even Raven’s cake tasted better; and Charles hadn’t thought that was possible. He told her so, earnestly.  
“Thanks.” Raven said offhandedly. Hank rolled his eyes.  
“She’s actually very proud of her baking; don’t let her persuade you otherwise>” he mock whispered, over Azazel’s sharp bark of laughter. Charles let his telepathy ripple onwards, quietly fixing his impressions of all of them in his memory for later, when his collar’s back on. It fleshes out their faces and their voices with images and impressions, makes them seem more real, more familiar to Charles.

Hank’s mind is a crucible; the hunger for knowledge, for understanding, has fed and focused the fire in his curiosity until it is white-hot, refining the shining metals of wisdom from the ore of research and experiment.  
Raven is a skirl of laughing water over stones, always changing, shifting in order to stay the same, bright and refreshing and much, much deeper than anyone would think at a casual glance. Azazel is smoke and sharpness, edged like a blade and smooth like a fine suit. He is fearlessness in the waiting dark, and laughter over vodka in the pines. They are all quite, quite beautiful. Most people are, in their various ways, when his telepathy is working. Idly, Charles wondered how Erik, or his children, would appear, if he perceived them with all of himself. Something spectacular, he was sure.

“OK?” Raven said, softly.  
“This is very good cake.” Charles said happily, and continued people watching.  
“Spot any murderers?” Az said. Charles smiled, slowly. He could tell Az was teasing, thanks to his powers, but he could also tell there was a thin thread of genuine curiosity there, too.  
“Mostly they look like everyone else.” Charles said, sweetly. He smiled.  
“Creeepy.” Raven said. Hank and Azazel struck up a conversation about chess. A little girl wandered up to their group. Charles shifted, slightly as he felt a new mind focus on his group. She was a pretty thing, dark haired and dark eyed. She gazed at Raven, unselfconsciously.  
“Is she lost?” Raven said, quietly. Charles shook his head.

“She doesn’t think so.” He switched his attention to the child. “Hello.”  
“Hello. You’re _blue._ ” the little girl said, almost accusingly, to Raven. “And so are you. And _he’s_ red.” The girl said, accusingly. Azazel rolled to his feet, and swept her a low bow. His smile was very wide.  
“That’s right.” Hank said, brightly. “Blue and furry.”  
“How come you’re not blue?” She said to Charles. He smiled, helplessly, and shrugged.  
“Genetics?” The little girl frowned.   
“Gentics is mean. Will they stop me being blue?”

“Do you want to be blue?” Raven said, mildly.   
The little girl’s face brightened and she moved forwards several steps, bouncing eagerly.  
“Yeah!” She nodded eagerly. “Blue is a great colour! I like it, it’s my favourite.” Raven smiled. “I like red, too.” She said, soothingly, to Azazel.  
“Lotta!” Someone shouted, and the girl- presumably Lotta- whipped round.  
“Uncle Ray, uncle Ray- look, look!” she pointed, delighted.  
“Don’t _point_ at people.” Uncle Ray said, absently, as he sauntered up, before he did a double take.

“Come on, we gotta go!” he said, to the little girl, urgently.  
“But Uncle Ray!” she protested. He ignored her, grabbing her by the arm, and pulling her along. His fear and distaste cut through Charles like a fetid knife.  
“Freaks…” he muttered, not quite quietly enough. “You said you wanted to see the otters, remember?” Charles hunched in on himself.  
“Freaks?” Hank said, calmly. Uncle Ray kept walking, almost dragging Lotta with him. Raven kept herself blue and muttered, furiously. Azazel said, nothing; but Charles could feel the displeasure there. He fought not to cringe further.

“Charming man.” Hank said, finally. “Let’s not spoil the day. Who’s for ice cream?”  
“Charles?” Azazel said, quietly. “You are ok? Do you need an out?” Charles smiled, a little shakily. The others seemed far less rattled by the stranger’s fear and disgust than he was.   
“He’s far enough away now.” Charles said, firmly. He was determined not to be the problem in the group.  
“You sure?” Raven said, as he frowned.  
“It’s funny- he was wondering what a normal person was doing, with the, with the-“

“Freaks?”  
“Yes.” Charles paused. “He thought I might need rescuing. Or therapy.” Az gave a sharp bark of laughter. Raven stood up and flicked through her purse for ice cream money.  
“I should have told him, I’m not normal either.” Charles said, thoughtfully. “But I think he would have been more frightened, and I don’t like fear; it tastes, um, blech.”  
“Blech?” Hank said, lightly. Charles nodded.  
“We’ll steer clear of blech in the ice cream then.” Raven said, lightly. “Preferred flavours?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Witch-Queen of Narnia is neither an assassin nor a Veela, whatever Sean tells you. He saw the first meeting of ~~Jadis~~ Emma and the Sharkman; the shock caused him to exaggerate, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look- over there- That's some PLOT on the horizon!

Sean was mopping the floor of the coffee shop after the tragic death of a café mocha and some orange juice led to a minor flood. This meant he was out from behind his Last Defence (the counter) when Jadis the White Witch-Queen of Narnia walked in. Alright, so, she wasn’t of Hogwarts, but the title definitely seemed right to Sean, as he gazed on her icy white clothing and- he had to admit- vaguely familiar blonde beauty.  
“Yes, you know me.” The White Witch said, calmly. “Skinny cappuccino, please.”

Sean abandoned the mop and fled to coax Magneto into doing his bidding. The coffee machine was ornery today. He had no idea why; but the boss man had been pretty irritable himself, coming back from the shop that had apparently fired Charles the week before. All his cleaning and tailoring had been hooked over one arm; Sean was sure some of Erik’s foul mood lay in the fact that he’d now have to go several miles every time he needed something dry cleaned or altered.

Of course, Sean thought as the machine emitted grumbling, ominous noises, everyone was going to have to that, now. Charles hadn’t done anything wrong; that he could think of, and Sean was of the opinion that meant he must have been a, a saint, a gem of an employee, because Charles could almost always find something he’d done wrong to apologise for, in any situation. Although they were all steadily training him out of it, his nervous apologies for breathing and/or existing occurred way too frequently. Sean shook his head, and poured carefully.

“There you go, ma’am.” Sean said, handing over the precious caffeine.  
“Thank you.” She tipped, folding money into the jar. Sean nodded in reverent respect.  
The Witch glanced about the coffee shop- mostly empty, this time of day- and said, carefully  
“How well do you know Charles Xavier?” Sean stiffened. He knew something was up. He glared. People should learn to leave the Professor _alone._ Sean remembered what Erik had done to the Death Eaters who’d dropped by, and was suddenly glad the bossman was upstairs, at home.

“Who’s asking?” He said, bluntly  
“I’m Emma Frost.” She said, patiently. Sean blinked. Should he know the name of someone who was probably a trained killer? Maybe she wasn’t Jadis. Maybe she was an assassin. Possibly a part-Veela assassin. Emma Frost laughed.  
“Oh, honey, no.” She said, shaking her head. “I’m something so much worse than any trained killer you can think of. I’m a lawyer.” Sean gaped. “ _Charles’_ lawyer.” She repeated.  
“So?” Sean said, and wondered how you ID’d lawyers.  
“So, I need to talk to the owner of this place, one Erik Lensherr.” She said, coolly amused.

“Is Charles in trouble?” Sean said, worriedly. “Can I do anything?” Emma’s icy expression softened, slightly.  
“You do know him.”  
“Prof’s the reason Alex-my boyfriend- has his brother back.” Sean said. “And I- Charles…” he trailed off lamely. “Well, you know him.”  
“Yes.” The not-Veela said. “I do.” She smiled, and Sean saw how much she liked Charles  
“I’ll get him.” Sean said. “He’s, ah, he may be a bit-“ he began, warningly.  
“Oh, trust me, I’ve heard plenty about Erik Lensherr from Charles, recently.” Emma said, smiling in a way that suddenly terrified Sean.

“Ok- right away!” he said, and ran for the stairs.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Erik said, harshly, a few minutes later.  
“The boy didn’t tell you?” Emma said, as she sat, carefully elegantly, in the breakroom.  
“Sean banged on the door, and mumbled something about lawyers from Narnia and scary killers.” Erik said, curtly. “And Charles Xavier.” He fixed the strange woman with a glittering, piercing eye. “You’d better not be bringing him any trouble, he’s had enough of it-“  
“I know that rather better than you, dear.” Emma said, low, and cold and utterly angry. “I’ve known him since we were three years old, I’m the reason he got out of the medical custody of those well intentioned jailors who still believe all the shit the Institute for Mutation Management used to pump out.” Erik blinked.

“Well done.” He said, not quite sardonically. He swallowed back his own bubble of rage. “Pity you can’t stop them coming around and harassing him, though.” He added.  
“What.” Emma said, flatly, and for the first time, Erik was truly afraid of the woman.  
“Charles- if you’re his lawyer, you’re a telepath, too.” Erik said curtly, and swallowed. “Look for yourself.” He tilted his head and tapped his temple invitingly. Emma’s eyes narrowed, and then a cold probing tendril slipped smoothly through Erik’s mind, and lifted away the memory of Thing One and Thing Two for a closer inspection. Erik could not repress a shiver, but that was as far as the lawyer’s search went.

“Hmm.” Emma said, thoughtfully. Then she shook herself, and took a dainty sip of her coffee. “That’s relevant to why I’m here, partly.”   
“Why are you here?” Erik said, harshly.  
“Because I got Charles out about five years ago, but I haven’t always been able to keep him out.” Emma said, reluctantly. “And this place, this move… I think it’s the first time he’s allowed himself to make friends. He talks about all of you, you know.” She paused. “I’ve never seen him so happy.” She added. 

“My children didn’t give him a choice. They saw him and decided he was one of us.” Erik said, and smiled. “And nor did the rest of us give him a choice, we just- liked him, I suppose.” Emma raised an eyebrow. She smiled, slowly as Erik shifted in his seat, awkwardly.  
“We’re a little- clannish, I suppose, the mutants around here.” Erik said, with a shrug. The eyebrow stayed up.  
“And, well.” He said, slowly. “Charles is-“  
“Is what?” Erik was silent.

 _Clever._ Erik wanted to say. _Clever, funny, and insightful, compassionate and thoughtful and fond of chess and puns and no one, **no one** should make him so shamed, so frightened, so... hurt, scarred as ERik could see he had been._  
“-Charles, I suppose.” He said, lamely, at last. Emma sat back, slowly. She nodded.   
“Yes, you’ll do.” She said. Erik looked at her.  
“Do what?”  
“Charles has problems on two fronts, now.” She said. “Not just the people afraid of telepaths; but his family-“

“We’re his family now-“ Erik said, and then stopped, abruptly wishing he could rip his own tongue out as Emma smirked, briefly.  
“After Charles’s father died, and he was shipped off to the Institute, his mother re-married.” She said, after a burning pause. “But she didn’t bother changing her will, and apparently drank herself to death before he was fifteen.”  
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer-“  
“So Charles should have inherited the Xavier estate.” Emma said, over Erik.   
“But?” Erik said. He was sure there was one.

“But he was a crazy telepath; hospitalized for his own good,” Emma said, sarcastically. “In the eyes of the law, anyway. His stepfather got a power of attorney.”  
“So they got their paws on his money.” Erik said, bitterly. Emma smiled, grimly.  
“Only when they had him under their care- I mean, control.” Erik drew in his breath.  
“And if not?”  
“It sits there, waiting.” Emma said. “I think he went back to hospital or the half-way house to get away from them, before I got him compensation, and he was able to support himself.”

“Them?”  
“His stepfather has a son of his own. Cain Marko.” Erik swallowed again, fighting down his protective rage. He’d have to ask Charles how he wanted these Markos dealt with. Sliced lengthwise or into small cubes, perhaps.  
“And you think they want to take Charles?” Erik growled, and was mildly pleased when Emma blinked at his tone.  
“Kurt was one thing. He gave Charles a choice, of sorts- them, or the hospital. Cain’s another. I think he’s not interested in choice.”

“I will kill him.” Erik said, flatly. “That will solve the problem.” Emma shook a finger at him.  
“Do not plot anything illegal in front of me. And don’t plot anything that doesn’t involve Cain _suffering_ either.” She said. “But I am worried that Cain will come after Charles indirectly, and the stress will cause him to- slip-  
“Which would give the hospital the chance to take him back, unwillingly.” Erik said. “I see.” He stared, broodingly, at the table top. Emma sipped more coffee.  
“Obviously, you have my help.” He said, quietly. “And anyone who works or drinks coffee in _Edie’s_ , regularly.” Emma nodded. “You probably want to speak to Logan-“  
“Who?”

“Landlord. And some of the other mutants who live in that block.” Erik said, and then paused. “But what do we tell Charles? I don’t want to lie-”  
“Probably couldn’t.” Emma murmured.  
“But we don’t want to stress him out, either.” Erik said, reluctantly. Emma nodded.  
“Let’s worry about that after we arrange a grand meeting of the Friends of Charles Xavier.” She said, after a pause.  
“Right. We can have that here.” Erik said. He leant forwards. “And what will you be asking us to do?” Emma leant forwards, too.  
“Well.” she said, slowly, happily “My first idea would be-“


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets a letter, and makes a descison. Erik gets angry. Sean makes hot drinks.

Charles stared at the letter in his hand, unhappily. He’d hoped so hard that they wouldn’t start coming again. He had deliberately not left a forwarding address when he’d moved last time; after the _looks_ and the _fear_ and the shops that wouldn’t serve him anymore had all got too much again. Perhaps the oddly suited men who had come into Erik’s café had found something out and let it slip. They had turned up from time to time, or people very like them; but Charles didn’t ever bother reporting them, these days. 

They didn’t talk to Charles directly. Not like the letter writer had. The social worker had thought he was having a paranoid episode, and had tried to suggest he re-admit himself to a care home, several times, before Charles had been able to find the job that had led him to move here. The job he’d just lost. No real reason; just a reduction in hours to zero, and then being let go altogether. Maybe someone had been writing them a letter or two.

Anonymous letters- really, how old-fashioned this faceless harasser of his was. Couldn’t spoof an IP address and e-mail him something rude, no, they had to actually desecrate a newspaper (Charles hoped it was a newspaper. No book should die for this cause) and send him poorly spelt threats. Charles bit his lip. The last time… the last time he’d started getting these; he’d told his landlord. The letters seemed to be arriving outside of postal hours, and he hadn’t wanted anyone else to be at risk. He’d been asked to move out. 

When Charles had asked for some time to find somewhere else, he’d been _told_ to move out, no deposit back, no arguing. He’d lost a lot of his things- whatever wouldn’t fit in his car had to be left behind, and that had been that. Of course, he’d lost his job not long after. Emma had put him up in her guest room for a week, once she found him sleeping in his car again; but he hadn’t let her cause any trouble for his former landlord or employer. He didn’t really dare risk a court, or a doctor again- they’d only say he was crazy, and, once the letters had gone with his room, he’d have no proof otherwise.

Should he tell Logan? He didn’t _think_ the other mutant would throw him out without warning, but. But. What if Logan wanted to avoid bother? He was an easy going landlord- as long as he got the rent. Charles swallowed, nervously. His knees were feeling a bit watery. He really didn’t want to make Logan angry, if he could avoid it. But, not the last place he had rented, but the one before, there had been unpleasant graffiti daubed on his door and the walls. What if that happened? Charles became aware he was breathing too fast. He was cold and sweaty with rising nauseous panic.

 _Erik might know what to do._ The thought was a seductive one. Edie’s, with its warm smells of coffee and melted cheese, the friendly faces behind the counter, felt somehow _safe_. Charles felt welcome there. Erik was… not strong, but tough, somehow. Resilient. Being around him made Charles feel like that, too. And- after all, he’d thrown the suited men out of his shop when they came there, with Charles’ picture- Charles hoped Erik would not make him go away, if he brought this ugliness with him.

Decisively, Charles plunged out of the building, stuffing the letter into his pocket. Erik knew Logan. Erik might know what the best course of action was.

 

“Boss, can I leave early today?” Sean said, hoping against hope. “I’ve a paper.”   
“How early?” Erik did not look up from the paperwork he was wrestling with.  
“Uh.” Sean bit his lip. “Can I leave a- Oh, hey, prof. Charles. Usual?”  
“Hello, Sean. Yes please.” Charles’ voice sounded hoarser today than it had for weeks. Erik frowned absently. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold again. Well, this time, Erik wouldn’t leave him to the tender mercies of Raven’s little trio, if that was the case. He shuffled aside the papers to give Charles a place to set his drink down, when it was ready.

“H-hello, Erik.” Charles sounded more nervous than he had for a while, too. Erik finished a row of figures and looked up. Charles looked more nervous and worn, too.   
“Are you alright, Charles?” Erik put his hand out. There was a bit of a pause before Charles took it and sat down. “Everything alright?” Erik pressed, gently. He tried to keep his voice and thoughts calm. Charles’s hand twitched in his.  
“Not entirely.” Charles said, unhappily.  
“Anything I can do?” Erik said, quickly. Charles half smiled.  
“I came in to ask your advice, actually.” Erik felt a warm, pleased sensation, at that. Charles smile widened, and Erik realised Charles had picked up on that despite the collar.

“I- Someone sent me a letter.” Charles told the table. Erik tightened his grip on Charles’ hand.  
“Who was it from?”  
“I- I don’t know.” Charles said, eyes still downcast. “I wanted- I don’t know quite what to do, so…” He dropped the letter on top of Erik’s paperwork. “Here, read it if you like.” His eyes were still dark with anxiety. Erik blinked at the sight of the message. It was written using letter and words cut out of newspaper and glued to a page. Then he bent closer, and began to read what they’d been used to say.

White-hot, protective fury filled him. Charles made a low noise in his throat. Erik glanced up, worried that the strength of his emotions would make Charles uncomfortable, but the other man was smiling, slightly.  
“So.” Erik said, after a deep breath. “You’re not sure what to do?” Charles shrugged, unhappily, and took his hand out of Erik’s to lift his cup. He sipped the rich chocolate slowly.  
“Last time.” He said, and Erik’s anger intensified. “I showed them to the landlord, and I-I had to move.”

“You were being harassed so badly, you had to _move_?” Erik said. He hoped that was what Charles had meant. For his old landlord to have thrown him out was-  
“I’m sure Logan won’t do that.” Charles said, firmly, although Erik doubted Charles actually was all that sure. “I just- I don’t want anyone else to get hurt and-“ he gestured. Erik nodded. The letter contained some pretty vile threats.  
“I’m pretty sure if you try and move out over this, Logan will hunt you down and drag you back.” Erik said, dryly. 

Charles uncurled, slightly. He smiled, wanly, and chewed at his lip.  
“I-“ Charles said. “I don’t want-“  
“Logan _loves_ a good fight.” Erik said. He brushed off the rest of that consideration. “Now. Do you want to go to the police?” Charles looked surprised.  
“I- should I?”  
“Up to you.” Erik said. “If you think you’re going to get more trouble like this, it might help establish it’s happening, with the authorities.”

“I wouldn’t be over reacting, you think?” Charles said, looking away. “I don’t- One of the social workers put on my file I have, have, delusions of-“ Erik bit back a curse. He took a deep breath. Sean drifted out quietly to refill Erik’s coffee. Erik stared at him meaningfully, until he brought Charles a refill as well.  
“Thank you, Sean.” Charles tried to offer Sean money. Sean hissed and ran back to the counter, like a cat threatened with a spray bottle.

“Charles, you’re a mutant in this city.” Erik said, pointedly. “I very much doubt any persecution you’ve encountered is delusional. Look at your job.” Charles blinked. “And that happened not long after those two creeps tried to smear their filth around in my café.”  
“I am sorry about that.” Charles said. Erik snorted.  
“Not as sorry as they’ll be; if they try coming back.”Charles smiled again.  
“Do you think whoever sent this knows where your address is?” Charles looked puzzled.

“I mean. Do you think they actually came here, or might be around, ever?”  
“You think they might?” Charles said, faintly. “Oh, I hope not.” He squinted at the envelope. “This has been through the post, I think.”  
“Azazel used to work as a delivery man, we can ask him to be certain.” Erik said. “Or- have you spoken to your lawyer-friend?” He debated, briefly, mentioning Emma’s visit, and decided against it. Later.

 

“I’m afraid I found the letter in my post box and came straight here. Sorry.” Charles said.  
Erik tried to hide it as another hum of pleased warmth through him. Charles had come straight to _him_.  
“Don’t apologise, Charles.” He said. “I feel privileged.” He did, too.  
“I just- I rely on Emma maybe more than I should.” Charles said, slowly. “I don’t want to, to use up her patience with me.”  
“I don’t think you _could_ , Charles.” Erik said, gravely. “Not with anyone.” Charles looked at him, wide eyed. Erik coughed. 

“So, we’ll ask Azazel about this one.” Erik said. “And keep our eyes out for disturbing people clutching newspapers or letters hanging about the place.”  
“Who’s hanging about the place?” Sean said, untying his apron.   
“I- someone has sent me a rather nasty letter.” Charles said, embarrassed.  
“They WHAT?” Sean said, angry. “I haven’t seen anyone out of the way about- I’ll put the word out.” Erik glared. “Uh, if you want me to.” Sean said, a little lamely, edging towards the counter.

“I- yes, please, that would be very kind.” Charles said. “I don’t want anyone else getting involved in-“ Sean gave him an indignant look.  
“Hey, prof, Gryffindor, here!” he said, sharply. “No one gets away with hurting my friends.”  
“And so say all of us.” Erik said, dryly. “Sean, go write your paper.” Sean blinked.   
“Really?” he said, incredulously.  
“The café’s dead, I can make coffee and do paperwork at the same time. Go.” Erik said. Sean vanished.  
“Ah, Erik? Um, if you’re busy,” Charles said, tentatively, shifting as if to stand up. “I can leave you-“  
“Keep me entertained for the next hour or so and there’s another hot chocolate in it for you.” Erik said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the one I think I'm focusing on next. Well, probably.
> 
> hehehehehehe


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months this one's languished. I have shame. Such shame.
> 
> Three conversations about more or less the same thing.
> 
> Yes, the others will also be updated in time.
> 
> Yes, I'll finish the non AU Token as well.
> 
> Yes I have no discipline in my works.
> 
> Yes, I hope you like it anyway.

Summoned by the nervous knock, Logan glared as he opened the door, fully prepared to maim anyone who had something they thought was an emergency on a Saturday night that he did not. He stopped when he caught sight of the knocker quaking on his doormat, fingers wrapped around his damn suppression collar like it was a comfort. 

Charles Xavier would never have the backbone to disturb his landlord for anything less than flood, fire or maybe shipwreck. Logan looked at Charles steadily. He blinked at him. Boy looked worse than he had done for a while; and he reeked of anxiety.  
“I’ll get my gear.” He said, as the silence stretched, before Charles could start apologising. Charles blinked at him, before the words unjammed in his head and he started talking in a nervous flurry of words.

“Oh. N-no, it’s not a repair, I’m sorry I-“  
“Then what is it?” Logan growled, not entirely unkindly.  
“I- I-“ Charles appeared to stall on using his words, and handed him an envelope, one with a letter inside it, by the feel.  
“What’s this?” Logan opened the envelope and began to read. He didn’t like what he saw.

“Letters, huh?” he said at last. Charles fidgeted with his hands.  
“Well, just one letter, so far.” He said. “But last t-time, there was more than one.”  
“How’d it end last time?” Logan kept his voice calm. If you got Charles worked up, Logan had learnt, he ended up unable to talk or breathe right. And he was already sidling and hunching like a pup expecting a beating.  
“I moved here.” Charles said, apologetically. Logan narrowed his eyes. That wasn’t an ending.

“Didja leave a forwarding address?” Charles shook his head. “Why not?”  
“He- the landlord, he- t-told me, he didn’t want mutie trouble here.” Charles said. “And changed the locks.” Logan blinked. “Fortunately my car keys were in my pocket.” Charles smiled, uncertainly.  
“Your landlord just… threw you out?” Logan said, struggling to keep his voice calm. Charles nodded. “Pretty sure that’s not legal, Chuck.” Charles shrugged.

Logan lifted the letter to his nose and sniffed. He could smell glue, paper, Charles, Erik- no surprise Charles had gone to Lehnsherr, now- and a couple of unfamiliar scents.  
“I got ‘em now.” He sounded slightly more certain than he really was. “I smell either of the people who aren’t you or Lehnsherr, they better be working for the post office and have a damn good reason for touching this.”

“I- thank you.” Charles spoke slowly. “Um... you don’t want me to-?” he trailed off. Logan was pretty sure what he hadn’t said. He felt a rush of anger, but he held it back. Kid had been kicked so often by life, wasn’t surprising he flinched at the wrong guy now an’ then. He was actually sort of proud of Charlie for coming to him alone, without Lehnserr holding his hand. Kid did have some kind of a spine of his own.  
“Anyone wants me to make you move out, they better come to me.” Logan sounded cheerful. 

He deliberately popped all his claws. “I got a few points to go over with ‘em.”  
“A few…” Charles said, weakly, staring in fascination at the razor sharp blades Logan kept hidden in his hands. Logan grinned at him, fiercely.  
“You’re smart, prof. They aren’t, whoever they are, but I reckon I can teach ‘em to count to six. Eventually.” Charles’ answering smile was faint and watery, but it was there. “You just let me know if you start getting more. Or want to tell the police.” Logan finished, handing the letter back. 

Charles stammered and nodded before high-tailing it back up to his place. Logan shut his front door, cursed for five minutes, and then, reasonably calm, popped the cap of a fresh bottle of beer and picked up his phone.  
“Hey, dollface.” He said, cheerfully, into the phone. He waited for the angry response to end almost patiently. “You wanted me to call?”

“Hey, Angel!” Sean called as the dancer swept into the hallway. “You got a minute? It’s for Charles.” Angel stopped her hasty move towards her front door. Alex nodded at her from his position on the steps.  
“For the Prof? Sure, what’s he want?” Angel smiled.  
“Ah- I was in the coffee shop, and he came in to talk to Erik and-“ Sean explained the letter, Charles’s fear and everything else as swiftly and clearly as he could.

“Someone’s been sending our Prof letters, now?” Angel had grown angry. She glared at the boys, who shrank back, defensively. Her wings flared in irritation. “Makes me wanna _spit_.”  
“Yeah, us too.” Sean said. “Uh- I don’t know that he wants everyone shouting about it, but I figured- you live here, too, you might wanna keep an eye open.”  
“You bet I do.” Angel confirmed, darkly. “I see some creepy dude-“  
“Or woman.” Sean suggested. She glared at him. 

“What?” He protested “It totally could be. Women can be as mean as men.”  
“Shut up.” Alex muttered. Sean glanced at the expression on Angel’s face and shut up.  
“I see anyone hanging around, anyone who might hurt the Prof, I’m gonna have _words._ ” Angel furled her wings close. “You heard about this meeting?”  
“Yeah.” Alex nodded. “Gonna maybe get Charles to babysit Scott, an’ go.”  
“Scott wants to go too.” Sean explained.

“Nah, I told him, we need a reason to keep Charles out of it till we’ve all calmed down some.” Alex smiled. “He’s good, my little bro, stopped complaining after that.”

 

Erik frowned at the clock. Both children should be in bed by now, yet here was Wanda, not even in nightclothes yet.  
“Daddy, I want to go to the meeting.” Wanda’s voice was firm, and her expression was serious.  
“You can’t.” Erik’s voice was short. He wished he could feel that having a large meeting about Charles, without Charles, was a good thing.

Wanda frowned at him.  
“But it’s about Mr Charles! He’s _our_ minion.” It wasn’t quite whining.  
“I know, Leibe, but- you and Pietro are both young.” Erik tried not to smile. “This is a meeting that will be long and probably boring and won’t contain any drawing of pictures at all.”  
“But-“  
“No, darling.” Erik said, firmly. “We will be talking long after you’re both asleep.”

“Will Mr Charles come up and say goodnight afterwards?” Pietro chimed in, hopefully. Erik shook his head.  
“He’s not going to be there.” Wanda explained.  
“Why?” Pietro was bewildered. “If it’s about him why’s he not s’pposed to be here?”  
“Maybe it’s presents.” Wanda suggested without much hope.  
“Not quite.” Erik smiled at his two children. They didn’t smile back.

“If it’s not presents, is like when the teachers want to talk to you about us?” Pietro said. “Mr Charles hasn’t done anything bad, has he?” Wanda’s small face creased with worry.  
“No.” Erik said fiercely. “He’s fine, it’s just… some people have been bad to him and-“  
“That’s why he doesn’t expect it when people like him.” Pietro explained to his sister. She made a face at him.  
“I know that already. But, Daddy”- she switched her focus back to Erik- “Isn’t it mean, leaving him out like this?”

“Mean?” Erik tried to play for time. Wanda was clearly having none of it.  
“He worries, Daddy.” Wanda reminded him gently. “All the time.”  
“And you said keeping secrets that weren’t about presents is bad.” Pietro added. Erik bit his lip, thinking, suddenly. What _would_ Charles think, about the great crowd, gathering below in the coffee shop, ready to protect him but not willing to include him?

“Maybe he’d worry less about the bad people if he got to count all the good ones who like him.” Wanda added. Erik blinked at his daughter. A faint shower of sparks drifted across her hair. She must be really upset if her powers were coming out to play like this.  
“You know, you may be right.” He said, slowly, and ran his fingers through his hair, considering.  
“I’m always right.” Wanda said, primly, and Erik was suddenly so reminded of Magda, back in the early days of their marriage, he could scarcely breathe.

“Not in colouring.” Pietro said. Wanda frowned at him.  
“That was too a colour people are! Az is red _all the time._  
“Yeah, but he’s not striped.” Pietro giggled.  
“I’ll call him.” Erik said, decisively. Wanda clapped.  
“If Mr Charles is going to the meeting about him, can we go?” Pietro smiled hopefully.  
“No.” Erik said, as he fumbled with his phone.

“But, Daddy!” both children said, as one.  
“He’s a shared minion.” Pietro protested.  
“He should see lots an lots of people like him!” Wanda said.  
“No.” Erik said, again, but it was weaker. “Oh. No, not you Charles. My children.” Charles said something that made him smile, but Wanda couldn’t hear him. “Anyway, Charles, I was wondering… are you busy this evening?”

Charles said something else, indisticly.  
“Oh, bring him, too. It’s not a school night.”

Wanda and Pietro exchanged glances, and began laying plans for ways to get into this meeting. It was only fair. Mr Charles was _their_ minion.


End file.
